The tourists moved about, murmuring oohs and ahhs as they snapped pictures of heirlooms once belonging to George and Martha Washington.
Ashley found her ears tuned to the storm as it grew closer. Did she dare cut short the tour and roll up the windows on her car?
Hold off twenty minutes, she implored silently as another crack of thunder shook the museum. Twenty minutes, and she would be spared the agony of sitting on a wet front seat again.
But hope grew dimmer as a searing bolt of electricity sliced across the sky, followed by another thunderous boom.
Shoving her heavy wig, adorned with flowers, lace, feathers, pomatum, and powder, farther back on her head, Ashley sighed. Wet seat, here I come.
She waited at a set of double doors until the small group had once again collected before her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to enter the ‘bedroom’ of the museum, where you’ll find authentic costumes of the Revolutionary period on open display. Please remain behind the roped areas, and, for the comfort of others, please refrain from smoking, eating, or drinking. Thank you.”
After swinging open the heavy wooden doors, Ashley leveled herself against the wall, stifling a groan as she felt both her feet being trampled by the zealous group surging through the doorway.
Tears stung her eyes as she molded herself against the door frame in an attempt to escape the onslaught. Good grief. Now she was maimed for life!
Snapping open her fan, she closed her eyes and fanned herself rapidly, praying she wouldn’t keel over in a dead faint.
“Are you all right?”
Ashley opened her eyes to see a fellow tour guide, Sue Martingale, peering anxiously at her.
“No, I’m crippled for life,” she predicted.
Overhead, rain began falling on the window skylight, lightly at first, then more heavily, until it sounded torrential.
“Darn it!” Ashley snapped the fan shut.
“Your car windows rolled down again?” Sue guessed.
“Yes. Sue, I hate to ask, but can you take over for me? I’d hoped to get to the health club right after work, and I don’t want to sit in a puddle of water!”
Sue straightened her mobcap. She was a little eccentric but was known around the museum as a real trooper. Her fellow workers knew that Sue could be counted on in a crisis. “Say no more. Martingale to the rescue!”
Ashley wilted with relief. “Thanks, I’ll give you my firstborn.” Last time it rained, it seemed as if she’d walked around with a damp backside for days.
Sue started forward, then suddenly turned, lowering her voice. “The weirdo isn’t in the group, is he?”
“No, no sign of the pincher,” Ashley whispered, grateful she’d at least been spared that.
Sue’s face grew solemn as she studied Ashley for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, except I think I’m getting another cold.” Ashley avoided Sue’s probing gaze and turned back to look at the milling group.
“Did you see Joel?”
Ashley appeared not to hear the question.
“Ash?”
“Yes?”
“Did you see Joel?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Ashley’s cheeks colored. “I took the coward’s way out.”
“Oh, great.”
“I know, but he was busy with an emergency appendectomy.” Ashley knew she sounded more defensive than was necessary. After all, whose life was it?
“And you couldn’t have waited until he was through to let him know that you were ditching him?”
Ashley’s chin firmed. “I didn’t ’ditch’ him. I just bowed out—quietly.” At Sue’s look of disbelief, she hastened to add, “It just wasn’t right, Sue. I was always waiting around for Joel.”
That was the problem. She’d spent their entire courtship waiting. Joel was always in surgery, making rounds, or with a patient. Granted, some people might think she was being petty, even selfish, but she was tired of hanging around a doctor’s lounge until all hours of the night in order to spend a few, brief moments with the man she was engaged to marry.
After all, wasn’t an engagement period a time when the two participants got to know one another better? That was how it was supposed to work, wasn’t it? But in the three months she and Joel had been engaged, she could count on one hand the times they had been able to share an evening alone without the phone or the beeper interrupting.
“So now what have you done?” Sue said hopelessly.
“I left him a note…with the ring inside the envelope.”
Sue looked aghast. “Oh, Ashley. Not again. Every time you get near an altar you back out!”
“That’s not fair. I don’t ‘back out,’ I just change my mind.” Well, yes, she did back out—maybe more like run out—but marriage to one man seemed so…permanent.
“Ash, you’ve had more marriage prospects than most women dream about, yet you continue to cast men aside like dust balls. Are you nuts? You love Joel. This time it was the real thing!”
“Maybe….” Ashley swallowed the lump in her throat. Joel was different; Sue didn’t have to remind her of that.
“First there was Jon—”
“Jon was a two-timer. I caught him with another woman, and he had the nerve to say she was a secretarial prospect.”
“Didn’t he hire her?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And Eddie? What about Eddie?”
“Eddie wasn’t ready to make a commitment.”
“He asked you to marry him, didn’t he?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t think he meant it.”
“What about Lon? Lon was a prime husband candidate if I ever saw one.”
“Maybe, but he wanted to move to California and I don’t—besides, being married to a senator and living separate lives…well, that isn’t what I want either.”
“And then there was Joel.” Sue shook her head sadly. “Honestly, Ash, Joel’s perfect for you, and now you’ve let him go. How many chances do you think you’ll have to find true happiness?”
Ashley didn’t feel good about what she’d done, and wasn’t at all sure it was the right thing—but it was done, and she couldn’t undo it. By now Joel had found her note and the ring. Besides, another man would come along in a few months, and she would think she was in love with him too. It always worked that way.
“I’ll admit that maybe I should have given this engagement a little more time—but my mind’s made up. I never see Joel. And once we’re married, it’s not going to get any better.” She shrugged lamely. “I’ve had to cancel so many parties that most of my friends believe Joel’s a figment of my imagination.”
“Ashley…he’s a doctor, and he just happens to be everything you want in a man. You’ve got cold feet again, tell the truth.”
Ashley’s chin firmed. Joel was almost everything she wanted in a man—except that he was already married. To his profession. Call her selfish, call her shallow and unreasonable. Was it wrong to want to be called Mrs. Joel Harrison, and have a man to back up the claim?
Another clap of thunder shook the building as Ashley looked anxiously to the windows again.
“You’re a fool, Ashley Wheeler. Men like Joel aren’t shooting out of the ground like mushrooms,” Sue warned, glancing at the crowd that was wandering about restlessly now.
“Well, mushrooms have a tendency to give me the hives,” Ashley returned lightly.
“Sheesh.” Sue straightened her mobcap again. “You’re hopeless.”
“I have to go,” Ashley murmured. “My car is probably floating down Huntington Avenue by now.”
“So go—big chicken.”
The two exchanged forgiving grins.
Turning, Sue addressed the group once more. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Sue and I will be continuing the tour with you. To your left, you will find an original gown worn by Betsy Grisom Ross. There are records indicating that Betsy was employed making ships�
� colors, et cetera, but there is no real evidence to support the story that Betsy Ross made the first American flag. The legend was started in 1870 by her grandson, William Canby, in a speech to the Historical Society of Pennsylvania…”
Ashley hurried toward the entrance, pausing long enough to grab her large catchall bag—the bag Sue called Ashley’s “trunk” because she carried everything she owned in it and never went anywhere without—and rummaged for her keys. If she was lucky, she could pull the car closer to the entrance and avoid another drenching when she got off at nine.
The buckled slippers weren’t going to allow her a graceful retreat, Ashley realized, as she made her way to the front door. Heads turned and eyes narrowed with disapproval as the heels clattered against the wooden floor.
The curator of the museum stepped out of his office, his brows knitting together at the sound of all the ruckus. His forefinger shot to his lips as he scowled at her.
Nodding apologetically, Ashley slowed her steps, tiptoeing the rest of the way across the room.
Pushing through the swinging doors into the foyer, she spotted an umbrella and quickly commandeered it. Rain was falling in a deluge as she pushed through the front glass doors. Though it was only four, rush-hour traffic was already backing up.
Watery pellets stung her face as she popped the umbrella open, then started down the long flight of stairs to the street.
Concentrating on holding the hem of her dress out of the water, balancing her bag and the umbrella, she made her way down the row of stairs, mentally cursing the blasted buckle slippers. Belatedly it occurred to her that she should have changed into her street shoes, but it was foolish to go back now.
Hallway down, she felt her foot slip on the wet concrete. Pausing, she steadied herself. All she needed was a broken leg.
Continuing more slowly, she caught her breath as the umbrella suddenly turned inside out, propelling a wall of rain back in her face.
She jerked the umbrella upright, which caused her to lose her balance again. Her foot gave way, pitching her forward in a clatter of buckle shoes, flying bag, and flyaway umbrella.
She found herself tumbling end over end, praying she wouldn’t break every bone in her body. Panic seized her as unsympathetic concrete rose up to slam painfully against her ribs.
Joel’s image flashed before her as she tumbled out of control, her head smacking against the step. Dear Lord, she was about to die. Didn’t a person’s life flash before her when she was about to die?
She grabbed for a railing and missed. The wig flew off, flowers going one way, birds and feathers the other. The buckled shoes went next, soaring through the air like a kite on a windy March day.
Dying in a broken heap in a rainstorm was her punishment for breaking up with Joel, she realized too late. She shouldn’t have left him a note the way she did—she should have invited him to some nice little Italian restaurant, and—no, he wouldn’t have shown up! Someone with an infected gallbladder would have taken priority, and she would have been left to finish off the basket of breadsticks all alone.
She tumbled over and over, the agony of her sins haunting her. Maybe she should have given the relationship a little more time—been more patient with him. The doctor’s lounge wasn’t so bad. She’d met a lot of weird but interesting people there.
Maybe Joel hadn’t found the note yet. Hope sprang anew in her. Yes, he would still be in surgery! It would be hours before he discovered what she’d done. If she lived, she would still have time to remedy her mistake.
Please God, don’t let there be anyone watching. Her skirt went over her head as her bottom up-ended again. Thirty-five—thirty-six—thirty-seven—thirty-eight…
Spilling onto the sidewalk, she finally landed in a tangled heap.
Groaning, she rolled onto her back and lay prostrate as she tried to orient herself. She couldn’t move. There wasn’t a single place on her that wasn’t throbbing like an abscessed tooth.
Lying with her eyes closed, she tried to summon up enough strength to move. She was only vaguely aware that the wind and the thunder had suddenly died away, and it was cool and strangely quiet now.
She could feel curious eyes fixed on her. And why wouldn’t they be? It wasn’t often that Bostonians were met with the sight of a woman dressed in a Revolutionary War costume lying spread-eagle in the middle of the sidewalk. How embarrassing! She could imagine the spectacle she had just made of herself. Arms and legs flailing about wildly as she pitched headlong down the flight of stairs. She groaned again. And her bag…all of her personal toiletries were scattered in the middle of the sidewalk!
“I’m all right,” she murmured in a modest attempt to soothe the onlookers’ curiosity. She attempted to push herself upright, trying to still her spinning head.
The strained silence was suddenly shattered by the frenzied sound of chairs scraping against stone and knocked to the floor in haste.
“My word! We have been set upon from above!” a man’s voice exclaimed.
“Stab my vitals! What manner of wench have we here?” A second voice sputtered.
Ashley’s eyes flew open, growing wider as she stared into the astounded countenances of six very strange looking men. The men, all dressed in beautifully authentic commoner eighteenth-century costumes, stared back at her.
She stared blankly at the three cornered, cocked-black hats, the full periwigs, the sleeveless waistcoats, breeches, and gaiters.
“A Tory spy,” one man spat out. “Have the British completely lost their minds?”
“Excuse me?” Ashley murmured, for the men appeared to be expecting some sort of an answer from her.
“‘Tis the truth,” another agreed. “Curse their miserable hides!”
The men tilted their heads upward, peering at the large hole in the ceiling as Ashley struggled to sit up. Her head spun, and she was feeling slightly nauseated from her fall. “Please…could one of you gentlemen give me a hand?” she asked feebly.
Pushing herself up on her elbow, she waited.
And waited.
The men stood, hands on hips, staring contemptuously at the gaping hole in the ceiling.
Ashley’s eyes followed the men’s gaze, her eyes widening again as she became aware of her surroundings.
An audible gasp escaped her as the six men turned, focusing their attention on her again. She was lying on the middle of a table, surrounded by clumps of dirt, pieces of thatched grass, and rotten timber.
She looked about in disbelief. Why, she wasn’t in the middle of the sidewalk, instead of a small, low-ceilinged, dimly lit room where particles of light struggled to work their way through a narrow window.
She grew even more confused when she saw that chairs were overturned and pieces of a checker game were scattered on the floor. A beer stein dangled limply from one man’s hand, while the others stared at her as if she were a bug-eyed alien who had just popped in for a visit.
She swallowed, searching for her voice. “Excuse me…I…where am I?”
“Better the question of who are you?” A man’s voice, deep and resonant, sounded from the shadows.
Ashley strained to discern the man’s features in the dim lighting. He was tall with a menacing presence that made a shiver slide down her back. There was a cold, dangerous edge about him that made Ashley draw back protectively.
The man stepped out from the shadows, his eyes flickering with contempt. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Ashley stared into steel-gray eyes that were totally lacking in warmth.
When she failed to find her voice, one of the men standing next to her chuckled mirthlessly. “Shall we toss a coin to see who shall have the privilege of returning her to Gage and permitting him to see what a fool he has employed?”
Who were these men? Especially that one with the cold eyes? And what was he doing in such a costume? Was he part of a reenactment group hired by the museum? The man’s lawn shirt was unadorned, and his waistcoat and coat were a matching tobacco brown marked
by silver buttons. He was breathtakingly handsome, but something wasn’t right. If this was a reenactment group, why were they angry with her? After all, she was the one who had taken a hard fall.
“Look, I don’t understand what is going on here.” Ashley slid off the table, sending dirt flying in all directions as she shook out her skirts.
“She plays the innocent,” one of the men scoffed.
Ashley reached to collect her shoes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped.
“Explain yourself,” the man with the cold eyes demanded.
Ashley answered guardedly. “Why should I have to explain anything? You are the ones who have some explaining to do. And I demand—”
“You are in no position to demand anything. What is your intent here?”
Ashley whirled to face the man who spoke. “Intent? The windows on my car are open, and—”
“What is your name?”
“My name is Ashley Wheeler.”
The men exchanged looks. “Wheeler? We know of no such name in Boston.”
“She is English, no doubt.”
“Mayhap. The Tories are well versed in the art of disguise,” the tall one conceded, “though this is somewhat ambitious, even for them.” His gaze swept ruthlessly over Ashley as he bent to catch the hem of her skirt and jerk it down over her exposed calf.
“If she is not a spy, then what was she doing on the roof?”
“I think we can safely assume that she is a spy.”
“What!” Fighting back a wave of dizziness, Ashley gripped the table for support.
A hand on her shoulder shook her fiercely. “What is your true name?” the tall man asked.
“Ashley Wheeler,” she repeated, then a sharp pain in her eye caused her to blink rapidly. Something was in her contact lens, and it hurt like blue blazes!
“Perhaps a time in the jail would help you regain your senses,” one of the men suggested.
Jail? The word sent fear racing through her. Ashley wasn’t sure what was happening to her, but the idea of spending time in a cold, dark prison was sobering, even in the best of circumstances.
Forever Ashley Page 2