by Sherry Lewis
“Zapped.” The word squeaked out around the nugget of fear clogging Meg’s throat.
“Yes, zapped. Or dropped. Or. . . I don’t know, Meg. I don’t know how I got here. All I know is, here I am. And I’m supposed to fix something here, but I don’t know what. At first, I thought I was here to mend the rift between Agatha and Zacharias. Then, I thought I was here to be the twins’ mother. Now, I don’t know what to think.”
“I think the excitement of the evening has been a bit too much for you.” Meg started to stand, but Agatha clutched her hand and pulled her back to her seat.
“It’s not the excitement of the evening. Think about it, Meg. You said yourself how differently I’ve been behaving lately.”
“Yes, of course. You have, indeed. And if that’s what you think—”
“I’m not making this up.”
Her eyes looked so clear and bright, Meg wondered for a moment if there might be some truth to the story. She gave herself a mental shake. Nonsense. She was ill, that’s what she was. Not a visitor from some other century—some other millennium. “I think we should get you up to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“No!” Agatha pulled away sharply. “Meg, look at me. Look straight into my eyes. Do I look the same to you?”
Meg wasn’t at all certain what she was supposed to say. She glanced up the stairs, wishing she hadn’t sent Colin ahead to bed.
“Please, Meg?”
Hesitantly, Meg did as she was told.
“Can you see a difference?”
Meg nodded. She saw a difference, all right, but she was suddenly fearful about what kind of difference it was.
Agatha shot to her feet. “I know I look like Agatha. I know that I sound like Agatha. But I’m not Agatha. But how can I expect you to believe me?” She paced to the other end of the landing and back again. “What’s something I couldn’t possibly know if I was Agatha?” She tapped her finger against the side of her cheek a she walked, and her agitation made Meg more nervous than ever.
“Perhaps a good night’s sleep. . . ” Meg suggested softly. If she could just get the poor mad thing upstairs to bed without upsetting her, she’d wake Colin and send him to Winterhill for Zacharias. Surely he’d know what to do.
Agatha stopped pacing and wheeled around to face her. “I don’t want a good night’s sleep. I want to convince you that I’m telling the truth.”
Meg kept her voice gentle and soothing. “But I already believe you.”
Agatha scowled so hard, a ridge formed above the bridge of her nose. “Oh, stop it, Meg. You think I’m totally off my rocker, and I can’t say I blame you. But it’s true. My name is Shelby Miller. I was born in 1971. I work at Winterhill as caretaker.” She scratched her head and swore softly—which was nearly enough by itself to convince Meg she was telling the truth—then went on talking gibberish and frightening Meg half to death.
She told about women wearing men’s trousers instead of proper dresses, about machines that carried people through the air and others that moved them about on the roads without horses. She made up nonsense about politics, about literature, about inventions, about wars and fashion and a hundred other things Meg couldn’t even begin to follow.
It was enough to boggle Meg’s mind and scare the devil out of her at the same time. She certainly sounded convincing, and if Meg hadn’t known better, if she hadn’t had a level head and kept her wits about her, she might even have started to believed her.
At long last, Agatha gave up and sat on the window seat again. She looked so defeated, Meg’s heart went out to her. “I can’t convince you, can I?”
“You must admit,” Meg said carefully, “it sounds a bit far-fetched.”
“I know it does.” Agatha kneaded her forehead, then moved her hand to the back of her neck. “That’s why I haven’t said anything until now.”
“Can I offer some advice, Madame?”
“Please.”
“Go upstairs to rest. By tomorrow, you’ll be fine again—I’m sure of it.” That wasn’t completely true. Meg wasn’t sure of anything. “You’ve been under quite a strain these past few weeks, what with your memory loss—”
“I didn’t lose my memory,” Agatha interrupted. “I made that up to excuse all the things I don’t know about Agatha’s life.”
“Of course you did.” Meg put an arm around her shoulder and tried to lead her up the remaining stairs. “So, you’ll rest tonight, and tomorrow you can begin again. You’ll get your life with Zacharias back in order and everything will be just fine.”
“I can’t get my life with Zacharias back in order,” she argued mildly. “I can’t make love to him because he’s not my husband. But he thinks he is, and I have to pretend that he is until Agatha and I switch places again—if we ever do.”
Meg patted her shoulder gently, soothingly, but she kept her moving up the stairs. “Put it all out of your mind for tonight. If you still believe it tomorrow, we’ll talk about it then.”
“You’re patronizing me,” Agatha said with a frown.
“I’m taking care of you, just as I’ve always done.” Just as she always would. It was a pity, but Meg finally had to concede defeat. Victoria Logan was right—the horrid old bat. Agatha wasn’t sane.
Not by a long shot.
SIXTEEN
“So, the evening went well.”
Zacharias lit a cigar and smoked silently for a minute or two in the comfortable leather chair. He watched the smoke drifting lazily toward the ceiling, listened to the muted conversation buzzing around him, and pointedly ignored Philip’s question.
“It went well,” Philip went on, “yet you went back to Winterhill to your own bed.”
Zacharias flicked ash into the ceramic tray at his elbow. “I told you, the evening was an unqualified success. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.”
Philip pointed accusingly with his cigar. “I can read you like a book, my friend. I know you better than anyone does. Something went wrong last night. Now what was it? Patricia? Your mother? What?”
Zacharias took another long drag from the cigar and shook his head slowly as he exhaled. “My mother was a paragon of virtue. Patricia didn’t make a scene. Agatha was a model wife. I’m telling you, Philip, the evening went splendidly.”
“Then, why are you here with me today instead of moving your things back over to Summervale?”
Zacharias took another slow drag from his cigar. “I’m not ready to move back to Summervale yet. Agatha and I are taking our reconciliation slowly.”
Philip’s brows knit. “Is that your choice, or hers?”
“We made the decision together.” The lie didn’t come easily, but Zacharias wasn’t about to admit, even to Philip, that she’d rebuffed him again, or that she’d used the same excuse she’d used so many times—far too many times for it to be true—during the early stages of their marriage.
“I see,” Philip said, nodding skeptically. “And you expect me to believe that.”
Zacharias wondered why he’d never noticed his friend’s cynical nature before. Or at least why it had never irritated him as it did today. “Why not? It’s true.”
“Because I know you, remember?” Philip propped his cigar in an ash tray and glanced around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “This is me you’re talking to, Zacharias. If you didn’t spend the night at Summervale, it wasn’t your idea.”
“Your opinion of me is hardly flattering,” Zacharias said, his tone purposefully brittle. “I am perfectly capable of spending spend time with a beautiful woman without expecting the evening to end in the bedroom.”
“Of course, you are.” Philip sent him a superior smile. “Especially when the woman is your wife and the very issue at stake is the bedroom.”
The observation hit a bit too close to the mark for comfort. But pride kept Zacharias from admitting it. “What is it you want from me? Would you be satisfied if I confessed that my wife turned me away at the door?”
; Philip’s smile faded. “Did she?”
Zacharias didn’t answer, but apparently his silence was answer enough.
Philip picked up his cigar again and studied it thoughtfully. “I see. And did her sending you away make you change your mind about reconciling?”
Had Philip sounded even slightly condescending, Zacharias would have refused to answer. But the apprehension in his eyes and the genuine concern in his voice unlocked something inside. “No.” He smoked for a second or two, then stubbed out his cigar and leaned forward with his arms on his thighs. “The outcome might have been the same, but she seemed completely different. She was as eager as I was, Philip. I swear she was. She’s never been so responsive. But when I suggested that I accompany her upstairs, she pulled away and made an excuse to send me home. Maybe I’m being foolish, but I could swear she was as disappointed as I was.”
“And now you’re more determined than ever to win her over.”
“Exactly.” Zacharias leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “Though maybe it’s a fool’s errand.”
“And maybe not.” Philip turned his cigar over and over in the ashtray. “You say she pulled away when you suggested that you accompany her upstairs?”
Zacharias nodded.
“And before that she was responsive?”
“Very.”
Philip’s scowl deepened. “Tell me, Zach, how did you win her the first time?”
Zacharias wagged a hand in the air. “I wooed her, just as any man would.”
“Well, then—?” Philip raised his eyebrows expectantly.
It took a moment for his meaning to sink in, but when it did, Zacharias scowled thoughtfully. “Are you suggesting that I woo her again?”
“I think it might be preferable to the way you’ve been behaving. Good Lord, man, what do you expect? She is a woman, after all. Women like pretty things. They like to be wooed. And if you want the outcome I think you do, it seems to me you might try a softer method than suggesting you join her in her bedroom.”
Zacharias growled in irritation, but he grudgingly admitted to himself that Philip might have a point.
Philip grinned at him. “In the business world, the direct method is best. With women, it’s not the one I’d recommend.”
“I’ll not play games,” Zacharias warned.
“Soft words and poetry isn’t a game, man, it’s a strategy.” Philip lowered his voice even further. “And if you want Agatha in your bed again, I suggest you consider it.”
“I’ll not start lying to her again.”
“Hell, man, I’m not suggesting that you lie. I’m simply suggesting that you make the suggestion more palatable.”
“And suggesting that the idea of sharing a bed with me is so unpalatable I need to resort to treachery in order to lure my own wife there?”
“To me, the idea of sharing a bed with you is very distasteful, but it might not be to her.”
Zacharias sent him a dark scowl. “Your jokes aren’t helping, Philip.”
“Neither is your foul mood. Honestly, Zacharias, take the poor woman some flowers. Write her of your heart’s desire. Tell her how much she means to you. Women need to hear that kind of thing.”
Zacharias supposed there was some truth in that. He loosened his cravat and shook his head. “It seems odd that I’d be reduced to wooing my own wife. . . ”
“As I understand it, man, that’s what we’ll spend the rest of our lives doing. But you’ve had a taste of the alternative. Can you honestly say you’d prefer to spend the rest of your life alone at Winterhill—with your mother?”
The suggestion left Zacharias cold. He held up both hands to stop Philip from saying more. “You’ve made your point, and much as I hate to admit it, it’s a good one.” He let the idea grow on him for a minute or two, then laughed softly. “I’ll do it. I’ll woo her again.” But as Philip turned to find a waiter who could bring him some wine, Zacharias wondered if it could possibly be that easy.
Would Agatha respond to pretty words, or would she merely turn up her nose? His pride had taken a beating at her hands once before, and he had no desire to leave himself open to another wound. If Agatha hadn’t changed so dramatically, he wouldn’t even consider wooing her.
But she was different. And he loved her as he’d never thought it possible to love any woman. And the thought of spending the rest of his life without her left him colder than the fear of possible rejection.
So, he’d try to woo her again. He just hoped he hadn’t forgotten how.
Candlelight danced across the desktop, bathing the blank sheets of paper at Zacharias’s elbow in shadow. Outside, a stiff wind blew against the house, rattling the windows and souring his disposition. The twins had been asleep for hours. His mother had long ago climbed the stairs to her rooms, and he’d sent Badgett and the other servants to bed. There was no reason for everyone to go without sleep.
Besides, he didn’t want or need an audience for this particular failure. Swearing in frustration, he crumpled his most recent effort into a ball and tossed it at the waste basket on the floor. It landed, as so many of the others had, several inches away on the rug.
He’d been at this for hours already, and so far every word he’d penned sounded either trite, foolish, childish, or lecherous. Just how did one go about writing a love letter? What did one say?
Had it been any other woman, Zacharias could probably have managed a decent letter. But this was Agatha. Agatha. The woman who’d rejected him soundly, who’d once destroyed nearly every ounce of confidence he had.
Rubbing his eyes, he pushed away from the desk and began to pace. His cravat lay abandoned on a chair atop his coat. His boots lay on their sides on the floor. Now, as he strode past the window, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and thought.
The task shouldn’t be this difficult. He had only to list Agatha’s fine qualities, expound a bit on her beauty, declare his love, and be done with it. But the right words seemed to hover just out of his reach, and as the night pressed on his mind seemed encased in fog.
Pushing aside the curtain, he stared at the blackness of the night. The clock on the mantle chimed one o’clock and prompted a yawn that brought tears to his eyes. He dashed them away and tried to knead a knot from the muscles in his neck.
The truth was, he felt like a fool. His feelings for Agatha ran deeper than he had words to express, and the last thing he wanted was for her to think him ridiculous. Or too pushy. Or disgusting.
How could he tell her that the change in her made him love her more completely than he’d ever loved anyone? How could he express the wonder he felt each time he looked into her eyes? How could he say those things without insulting the woman she’d once been?
Perhaps a love letter wasn’t the answer. Perhaps he should concentrate on another method of wooing her. But what? Not flowers. The old Agatha would have thrown them back in his face. Not jewelry. He’d tried that once before and failed miserably. Certainly not music. His singing voice made dogs howl.
He battled another yawn and started to turn away from the window, but the sudden flare of a light through the trees caught his attention and rooted him to the spot. The glow came from the top floor at Summervale, and he wondered if Agatha was having as much trouble sleeping as he was.
He imagined her standing on the top level, looking out the window toward Winterhill. He could almost see her wearing nothing more than her dressing gown and her thin nightgown, her thick, dark hair cascading to her shoulders and beyond. He could almost smell the scent of the lavender she’d worn at the ball and feel the touch of her hand. If he closed his eyes, he could have imagined himself kissing her, holding her, touching her.
He shook himself soundly. To imagine any of those things would be tantamount to self-inflicted torture. He’d be a fool to think of the day when he could make love to her again, to imagine the soft touch of her hands on his body, to dream of the sensation of his skin touching hers, the soft light of pleasure in her eyes and the whimper of e
cstasy coming from her throat. . .
Need, stronger than any he’d ever felt, tore through him. Desire, more powerful than he could remember, filled him. Yearning so powerful he could scarcely breathe racked him.
He stood that way for a moment, watching the light and indulging in his silent, horrible battle, then slowly lowered the curtain back into place, ran his hand across his face, and let out a ragged breath.
He glanced at the writing desk, at the crumpled paper on the floor surrounding it, at the pen and ink waiting for him. Maybe he didn’t know what to say, but if there was any possibility that he could win Agatha’s heart through words, he’d figure it out if it took the rest of his life.
Two full days had passed without word from Zacharias, and Shelby had grown so nervous she didn’t care what anyone thought of her. Two long, tortuous days with her body and her mind going through misery, reliving every look, every touch, every kiss, every smile. Two agonizing days while Meg watched her suspiciously, just waiting for another sign of madness.
Anything could have happened since she saw Zacharias last. Patricia could have retaliated for the way Shelby had talked to her at the ball. Victoria could have concocted another scheme. One of the twins might have been taken ill. Zacharias might have changed his mind. Dr. Messing might even be preparing commitment papers for her.
She couldn’t stay cooped up inside Summervale, or she would go mad. She couldn’t sit here for one more second, twiddling her thumbs and waiting for Zacharias to call on her. But she couldn’t sneak past Meg’s vigilant eye to call on him.
Still, she needed to do something. Something that would ground her and help get her thoughts in order. Something that would help push aside the longing and the regret at having sent Zacharias away.
She could almost hear Jon’s voice taunting her from the “real” world—the world that grew less real to her every day. You can’t rewrite history, Shelby.
Oh, but she could. She had. And it had been frighteningly easy.
She dressed quickly in one of the simple cotton gowns she’d had Meg alter so she could wear it without the corset, stepped into an old pair of slippers she didn’t mind ruining, and hurried downstairs. She found the old straw bonnet she used to protect Agatha’s skin from the sun and hurried out into the garden.