by Sherry Lewis
Shelby nodded slowly. “I know that’s why we changed places, Agatha. So that history would change.”
“Perhaps.” Agatha sat on the settee across from her. “Perhaps the Logan family’s history will change, but nothing you can do will change the way society was back then.”
“That’s true, but—”
“And I have no wish to return to it.” Agatha dropped her hands onto her knees and held Shelby’s gaze steadily. “You’ve had a taste of it. Can you honestly say you prefer the stifled mores of that time to the freedom you have here?”
“Freedom’s a relative word, don’t you think?”
“Exactly.” Agatha crossed her legs and smiled. “When Zacharias began his affair with Patricia, I was crushed. I had tried so hard to be everything he wanted me to be. I’d nearly died trying to give him children.”
“I know.”
“And he repaid that by running to the bed of another woman.” Agatha laughed. “You see? I can say that here. Back then, I wasn’t even supposed to think it.”
“Times are different,” Shelby admitted, “but—”
“I was expected to ignore his little fling. To turn a blind eye and smile sweetly. To accept him back into my bed without even raising an eyebrow. And when I didn’t, all hell broke loose.” She laughed again. “My Lord, it’s wonderful to be able to speak my mind without having someone collapse in a faint.”
“But you spoke your mind then,” Shelby argued mildly.
“Yes, and had the entire county convinced I was crazy because of it.”
Shelby couldn’t argue with that. She thought furiously, trying to come up with a convincing argument. If she had to stay here, in Agatha’s body, her life would be even less connected than it was before. “But he’s changed. He’s ready to be your husband.”
“Good for him. May he spend the rest of his life miserable and alone. Then maybe he’ll know what I felt like as his wife.”
Shelby battled an immense sadness. “Can’t you forgive him?”
“No.”
“But the twins—”
“Are none of my concern.”
Sighing softly, Shelby rubbed her forehead. “They need you, Agatha.”
“They don’t need me,” Agatha said firmly. “They need their mother.”
“Patricia doesn’t want them. She’d make a horrible mother.”
“Yes, she would.” Agatha’s smile evaporated. “But they’ll have to get along without me, because I’m not going back.”
Shelby stood, then immediately regretted it. Her head swam and her knees buckled. Carefully, she lowered herself back to the settee. “I don’t understand how you can turn your back on your family. I’d have given anything to have one.”
“Family is a headache,” Agatha insisted. “I quite enjoy being you, having no connections to anyone or anything, no one to expect anything of me, no one to be disappointed if I don’t behave the way they want me to. There’s no one here to disapprove of me.” She paused for a moment and let her gaze travel across Shelby’s face. “If you’re so fond of them, why don’t you go back?”
Shelby took a deep breath and voiced aloud the fear that rampaged through her. “I’m not certain I can.”
“Nonsense. You made it back here, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Shelby said slowly, “but have you read the history books? This is the date of your death. I’m not sure there’s anything for me to go back to.”
“My death?” Agatha pulled back as if Shelby had slapped her. “Don’t be ridiculous. According to the books I’ve read, I lived to a ripe old age, even though I was a miserable old woman.”
Shelby’s heart skipped a beat, then began to race. “You didn’t die?”
“Of course not.” Agatha stood quickly and crossed the room, returning a moment later with a thick volume Shelby recognized from her own research. “Look.”
Shelby took the book but her hands trembled so violently, she could hardly turn the pages. Had she really managed to change the course of history?
Agatha noticed her struggle and sat beside her, turning the pages quickly and pulling back her hands when she found the chapter on the Logan family. The pictures Shelby recognized were still there, but there were others, as well. Zacharias as an old man, still tall, still proud, but his hair shot through with silver and a great, drooping moustache adorning his mouth.
On the following page, a picture of Agatha, well into her sixties, still stern and disapproving, her face a map of wrinkles and her eyes still hard as stone. But Shelby didn’t care. That the picture existed at all gave her great hope.
She glanced up at Agatha, her heart thudding dangerously. “This is different than it used to be. According to the history I read, you died in June of 1871.”
“Obviously, your presence in the past changed that.”
Shelby touched the picture gingerly, then noticed one beside it of Zacharias and Patricia together. Her stomach lurched and tears filled her eyes. She traced Zacharias’s face with her fingertips and whispered, “But they end up together.”
Agatha glanced at her, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed in contemplation. “Do I detect a note of sadness when you say that?”
Shelby hadn’t meant to give herself away. She blinked away the tears and tried to look unconcerned. “Only because I don’t think they’ll be happy together.”
“They wouldn’t be,” Agatha predicted. “Patricia is an odious woman. But could it be because you have feelings for Zacharias?”
Shelby opened her mouth to deny it, but the lie wouldn’t come. She nodded miserably and closed the book. “I’m sorry, Agatha. I know it’s wrong—”
“Wrong?” She laughed as if she’d never heard anything so amusing. “Why? Because of me? Believe me, any feelings I had for Zacharias died long ago.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Agatha insisted. “I’m perfectly happy here in this life of yours. I can go anywhere, do anything and say anything I want. I have no ties to hold me, no social customs to chain me. I’ve never been so free.”
“Yes, but—”
“You, on the other hand, seem happier in the life I’ve deserted.” She met Shelby’s gaze again. “Am I right?”
Shelby nodded slowly.
“Well, then, if you actually want my life—though God only knows why you would—and if you actually want Zacharias—though I can’t imagine why you should—then have them both, with my blessing.”
Shelby couldn’t believe she’d heard right. “But—”
Agatha waved her silent again, then covered Shelby’s hands with hers. “I believe I was meant for this life of yours,” she said, and the urgency in her voice left no doubt she meant it. “And, apparently, you were meant for mine.”
Shelby still couldn’t believe Agatha was giving her permission to return to the past and make a life with her husband. “But if his infidelity hurt you as much as you say it did—”
Again, Agatha cut her off. “It did, at the time. But I’ve had time to think, as well. Zacharias’s affair with Patricia hurt me, but not because I was so terribly in love with him. I married him simply because that’s what one does in that dreadful time. I had no real interest in marriage. I had no desire to share my life or my bed with any man. But to remain single—by choice—was simply not acceptable. And to remain single because no one wanted you. . .” She broke off with a shake of her head and a thin laugh. “Well, you see, though I didn’t love him or want him, I wanted even less to be a spinster.”
Hope turned from a flicker into a flame. “Then you truly don’t mind that I’ve grown to love him?”
“Truly.” Agatha’s smile softened. “I don’t love him. I never loved him. And if I’m honest with myself, I’ll admit that I probably drove him to Patricia Starling’s bed. He isn’t really a bad sort, I suppose. In fact, he’s really quite soft-hearted. I suppose my obvious distaste for his lovemaking probably hurt him.”
Shelby’s heart threatened to beat right
out of her chest. “For what it’s worth,” she said softly, “he is sorry.”
Agatha waved away the apology as if Zacharias had made it, himself. “I’m sure he is. But that doesn’t mean I want to return to him. Nor would it be fair for me to do so. He deserves to be loved, Shelby. And if you love him—and it certainly appears that you do—by all means, return.”
Overcome with gratitude, Shelby threw her arms around Agatha’s stiff neck and hugged her. Agatha remained unyielding for only a moment, then softened and returned her embrace. “Go,” she whispered. “Make him happy as I never could. Fill that horrid old house with joy.”
Zacharias had spent so many hours pleading with God, his knees hurt. He’d gone so many hours without anything but the shallowest of sleep, his eyes felt as if someone had filled them with hot coals. He’d shed so many tears, his throat felt raw.
But he didn’t stop praying. He didn’t get up off his knees. He refused to give up hope. It doesn’t matter which woman comes back to me, he insisted silently. Please, just keep them both alive.
Perhaps losing Shelby now was the price he had to pay for his weakness. Perhaps he’d brought this all on himself. But he couldn’t bear to think that Shelby and Agatha would have to pay for his mistakes. If you must take someone, he bargained, take me. But let them live.
His eyes filled with tears again, surprising since he’d already shed so many as he held vigil at Shelby’s bedside. He dashed the moisture from his eyes and lay his head on the bed beside her hand.
Though he refused to voice aloud the despair that filled him, hope dwindled a little more with every passing hour. She’d grown so weak. She looked so frail. How could she hope to survive this?
Perhaps he was making a mistake by keeping Dr. Messing away. Perhaps—
A feather light touch brought him out of his reverie. He glanced quickly at Shelby, but her hand lay in exactly the same position as it had for the eternity he’d sat vigil beside her.
Slowly, gingerly, he pushed to his feet. His knees had been locked in that position so long, he had trouble straightening, but he was determined to save her. And if that meant he had to bring in Dr. Messing, that’s exactly what he’d do. If he had to spend the rest of his life fighting to prove that she wasn’t insane, he’d do it and gladly—as long as he knew Shelby was alive somewhere.
He took a step toward the door, but a sound, soft as a baby’s sigh, brought him back around again. Again, he studied the face of the woman he loved, searched it for some sign of recovery. But again, he found nothing.
He turned away again, but this time an unmistakable groan halted his step. He hadn’t imagined that.
Rushing back to her bedside, he sat on the edge of the mattress and gripped her hand. “Shelby? Agatha?”
To his immense relief, she groaned again. He held the hand tenderly and rubbed it in hopes of stirring the blood a little. He leaned forward and readjusted the cool compress on her forehead just as her eyes fluttered.
His throat dried, his hands went numb. He leaned closer and whispered her name. “Agatha?”
Another soft groan, another flutter of the eyelids, and he found himself staring into her wide brown eyes. She looked startled, disoriented. He couldn’t tell which woman was in there, but at this moment, he didn’t care.
Her eyes closed again, but only for a heartbeat. She sighed softly and groaned again as if she was in great pain and it tore through him, as well. She blinked again, rapidly, as if she was having trouble focusing.
“Agatha?” he said again.
She shifted her gaze to his face, but her expression didn’t soften. Yes, he thought with a pang he couldn’t stop, Agatha. He squared his shoulders and reminded himself of the bargain he’d made. If Agatha returned to him, that meant Shelby was alive somewhere. And that was all that mattered.
That was all that mattered.
He put a hand on her forehead. “Are you in pain?”
She turned her face away and let her gaze travel around the room. “Am I dreaming?”
“No. You’ve been ill. Terribly ill.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat and tried to tamp down the horrible pain of loss that filled him.
She let her gaze rest on the dressing table. Her eyes narrowed slightly. She took a deep breath, then shifted her gaze back to his face again. “Zacharias?”
“Yes. I’ve been here the entire time you were ill, and I won’t leave you now—unless you want me to go.”
Her eyes fluttered shut again and she let out a soft sigh. “Zacharias. It’s really you?”
“Yes.”
She tried to lift her hand, but she was too weak. It fell back to her side and her eyes remained closed.
Terrified, he checked her pulse but it seemed stronger than it had for a long time. Her breathing steadied, slowed, and sounded as if she were sleeping instead of hovering on the brink of death.
For now, Zacharias told himself, he’d have to content himself with that. Though it appeared she might be out of death’s grip, he couldn’t make himself give up the vigil he’d maintained at her bedside. And he tried to prepare himself to spend the rest of his life with the wrong woman, though he realized now that it had been easier to say than it might be to do. Still, he reminded himself again and again as he knelt there, gripping Agatha’s hand, that he could live with anything if it meant Shelby was alive somewhere.
She’d be happy, he had no doubt. She’d meet a man and fall deeply in love. And, in time, her memories of him would fade. But he knew without doubt that his memories would never die.
Sometime later—he had no idea how long—Agatha stirred again. “Zacharias?”
He lifted his head and looked at her, hoping he didn’t look distraught or disappointed. “Yes, Agatha. I’m still here.”
She crooked her finger and beckoned him closer.
He stood quickly and leaned across her on the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like hell.”
His heart leapt at her profanity, but he couldn’t let himself get his hopes up. “Rest a while,” he said gently. “I’ll have Meg bring some broth.”
“Broth?” She scowled at him. “I don’t want broth.”
“It will help strengthen you,” he argued.
“I don’t want broth,” she said again, her voice a little stronger this time. She studied his face for what felt like forever, then her lips curved into a smile. “You’re really here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Dear?” She let out a weak laugh and touched his cheek. “Sit beside me.”
Hope flickered again. “Shall I change the compress on your forehead?”
Her fingers traveled to the cloth and lingered there for a moment. Shaking her head, she pulled the cloth away and tossed it to the floor. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”
“No.”
Her hands traveled to his face again and traced the outline of his cheek. “Did you miss me?”
“Very much.”
A satisfied smile curved her lips, but Zacharias still couldn’t tell which woman she was. “Good,” she said after a lengthy pause in which she seemed to gain more strength. “What day is it?”
“July first.”
“Then I made it.”
“Made it?”
“I didn’t die.”
“No, though we worried you might for a while.”
She sighed softly. “Good,” she said again. He started to stand, intent upon calling Meg, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him back to the bed with a surprising amount of strength. “I don’t want Meg,” she said as if she’d read his mind. “Not until you kiss me.”
“Kiss you?” He sounded like a dolt, but his heart thundered in his chest. “Kiss you?” He’d never heard sweeter words in his life.
“Please.”
“Agatha?”
She shook her head slowly and grinned at him.
“Shelby.” The name felt like a prayer on his lips. Relief rushed through him with such force he was gla
d he wasn’t standing. “Is it really you?”
Her expression grew mischievous. “If you really doubt it, why don’t you kiss me and find out?”
Still hesitant, he leaned forward and brushed a kiss to her temple.
She scowled at him, then laughed softly and threw her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. “Not like that. Like this.” And without giving him a chance to think, she locked her lips onto his, opened her mouth beneath his and touched her tongue to his lips.
Groaning deep in his throat, he wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him. He kissed her until he thought his heart would cease to function, until his lungs refused to draw breath, until his head swam with need. Even after he ended the kiss, he couldn’t make himself release her.
“I’m back,” she said, stealing another kiss. “I’m back forever.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“But Agatha—”
“Is perfectly happy where she is.”
“Then she won’t return?”
“Nope.” She grinned at him. “You’d better get used to me, because it looks like I’m going to be here for a long time.”
He ran his hands along her sides, her back, cupped her face gently and ran a thumb across her lips. “And will you spend the rest of your life with me? As my wife?”
“In every sense of the word?”
“Every damn one of them,” he said, laughing with joy.
She grinned again and rested one hand on his chest. “I thought you’d never ask.”
EPILOGUE
“If you’ll all step this way—” Jon Davenport stood to one side of the grand staircase and waited while the members of his tour group climbed to the landing. When he was certain they were all together, he motioned for the chatter to cease and swept open the curtains behind the window seat. This was, and always had been, his favorite part of the tour.
Gasps arose from the crowd when they saw Winterhill towering on the next hill. “As you can see,” he said with a satisfied smile, “the two houses are virtually identical. The only differences you’ll find are inside. Winterhill is furnished in a style that’s slightly less ornate than Summervale’s.”