by Beth Trissel
Chapter Six
“Wake up, Evie.” The familiar voice whispered near her ear, while a firm hand clasped her shoulder and gave her a shake. “Wake up,” the woman urged, the sweet spiciness of rose, jasmine, and vanilla perfume wafting from her. “We don’t have much time.”
What? Why? Jolted from a deep sleep, Evie blinked heavy eyes and focused drowsily on the dimly seen figure bent beside her bed—technically the Wengers’ bed.
She recognized the woman in the long white nightgown, a lady’s outfit, or two, draped over her arm. “Grandma G.?”
“Yes, dear child.”
What was she doing here? Had Evie returned to the present?
Fear rifled through her. What of Jack? She couldn’t be parted from him again.
Again? The odd insistence echoed in her frazzled mind as she sat bolt upright in her chemise. “Where am I?”
“In between times. The house is warbling,” her eccentric relation whispered.
“It’s what?” Evie couldn’t see straight under the weight of grogginess, let alone think clearly. Where did that leave Jack? Was he still beside her?
Panic flooded her, and she swiveled toward the space on her right. Darkness swallowed the spot. She desperately patted the place where he’d been, seeking his solid warmth. Empty.
Wait. Hazy memory returned of him vowing he would bunk on the cot to preserve what was left of her modesty and not put temptation in their path. Too drowsy to argue the point, she’d only requested he stay with her awhile, and must have fallen asleep almost instantly. Was he over there?
With the intensity of a Border collie, she trained her gaze on the narrow cot along the pale wall beyond the washstand. The milky stream of moonlight slanting through the window revealed the outline of his slumbering form tucked beneath a blanket. Her chest thudded in gratitude.
“Oh, thank God.” She muffled her outburst so as not to disrupt his few hours of rest and pointed shakily at him. “That’s Jack Ramsey, Grandma, former Confederate officer, and guide for the Unionist Underground Railroad. He’s also my pretend husband and real fiancée. It all happened very fast.” Her head still spun from the intensity of their meeting.
She expected a snort or shock at her bold declaration regarding a perfect stranger, but the unflappable Gladys McIntyre didn’t seem overly surprised. “I thought you two might find each other again.”
Evie gaped at her; that odd word choice had surfaced once more. “Are Jack and I acquainted?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“But that makes no sense,” she hissed.
“You are from the past, sweet girl.” Grandma G. shifted the heaped clothes into her arms, adding a pair of black boots. “The house has wanted to take you back. The timing had to be right.”
Mystified, she clutched the pile of fabric and footwear, letting this inexplicable revelation sink in. “I suppose the house must want me here, but it’s awfully weird to speak of the place as if it has goals.”
“In a way, it has.” Grandma G. passed her the hat she wore for riding, and a stylish bonnet—trendy for the nineteenth century, anyway. “Houses absorb emotions whether good or bad from those who have lived in them, and sometimes retain a ghost or two.”
Now the woman was speaking of spirits? Evie grappled with her strange philosophy. “I suppose that makes sense, as much as anything.” She’d heard weirder stuff from space alien devotees. “What of you? How did you get through to the past?”
The hurried female picked up a vaguely familiar carpet bag, like a small suitcase made from a flowery wine-colored rug. She set it on the end of the bed. “Like I said, the house is fading back and forth between the present day and the era you find yourself in. I’m not sure what the term for this changeable phenomenon is. I call it a warble in time, or warbling. You have remained in eighteen sixty-four. I’ve popped in for a visit.”
Her jaw sagging, she stared at her grandmother’s indistinct features. “Will I stay here forever?”
“I surely hope not,” Grandma G. said under breath. “Your family would be most upset. If there is any danger of that, I will find a way to fetch you back. Take care, child, and return to the present with Jack at your earliest opportunity.”
“When will that be? Are you certain he can come?” Baffled beyond words, she wondered if her grandmother was some sort of witch.
“You’ll know when to act,” the indomitable Gladys assured her in a whisper. “Instinct will prompt you. And yes, Jack must go, too. But he probably won’t agree until the last possible moment. For that matter, the house won’t let you return until then. It has a reason for transporting you when it did.”
She spoke matter-of-factly, while Evie was floored.
Grandma G. gave her shoulder a reassuring pat, and smoothed the cloth heaped in her lap. “I’ve brought your green riding habit, and the checked day dress, plus your cloak, some toiletries, accessories, and lots of snacks. That sort of thing.” She indicated the carpet bag. “You’ll see. This should help ease your stay here. You didn’t have a chance to pack.”
“Not hardly,” Evie muttered.
“Good thing you were wearing your Victorian gown when you traveled back,” the enthusiast continued. “Though that one’s a bit dressy for this time and place.”
“Rather.” The Wengers must wonder at her extravagance in wartime when many wore black, the hue of mourning. “Thanks for the things you brought. I don’t understand what’s happening,” she faltered. “Everything feels like a dream.”
“No doubt. Oh, look. There it goes again.” The knowledgeable woman gestured at the walls, drawing Evie’s scattered attention to the strange phenomena.
She glimpsed her décor from twenty-eighteen as if through a wavering bubble stretching the height and width of the room. She reached out and touched her bedside lamp, and the covering on the bed was her own quilt. Then the bubble reversed, and the room appeared as it did in the Wenger’s day. The house was altering between past and present in what her grandmother termed the warble effect.
Odd, Evie hadn’t noticed her surroundings switching in and out of eras before. Was she that unobservant?
“How often does it do this?” she asked.
“Now and then. I sometimes find myself in the past. I’ve been in the Wenger’s kitchen more than once.” Grandma G. paused, her manner deeply thoughtful. “Such a nice family. Of course, that was years ago.”
Evie startled. “Who did they think you were?”
“A kindly woman passing by, on the occasions they saw me. They didn’t always. And I’ve been further back in time than them. The house is kind of like a volcano, quiet for a long stretch, and then active. It’s warbling a lot tonight. I realized at once when I got up to go to the bathroom. That’s when I checked on you and saw you going in and out of eras. So, I packed the bag, gathered your stuff, and stepped through.”
“I see,” Evie said, but she didn’t. Not remotely. Who would have the presence of mind to pack? “The whispers aren’t here now.”
“No. They emanate from this period in the house.” Grandma G. gave her a reassuring pat. “The window of opportunity may soon close. I must get back to my own time. When I step through the bedroom door I will be transported forward.”
“Wait.” Evie caught her sleeve. “Why did you say I’m from the past?” She hadn’t ventured here before now.
The plump figure hesitated as if uncertain whether to answer, her expression hidden. “I suppose you should know… Ages ago, in the mid eighteenth century, a young married couple named Joseph and Hannah Gruber built the log cabin at the heart of this house. The French and Indian War broke out soon after. Sadly, neither of them survived it.”
“What?” Evie gulped. “You mean, they were killed?”
“Joseph was. A passing war party shot him while he was out plowing. No one knew which tribe attacked.”
The news struck Evie hard for a man slain so long ago. “Did it matter which Indians did the killing?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, if you wanted to recover a captive,” her sensible grandmother replied. “Warriors took Hannah with them.”
“Poor girl.” She envisioned the weight of grief the young widow must have born.
“Yes, and bear in mind, Hannah and Joseph were Mennonite Pacifists,” the storyteller continued. “Men in their community are forbidden to fight and would have had to try and purchase her freedom, eventually.”
Evie imagined weeks dragging into months and years. “That might never happen.”
“And often didn’t,” the narrator agreed. “One of your female ancestors never came home. But in this event, armed men from a nearby fort recovered Hannah and several other captives before the war party got far. The poor girl didn’t last long upon her return. Died from fever and a broken heart. The pair are buried together in the tiny graveyard behind the house, beside the big oak at the back of the meadow. You remember?”
Stunned, Evie simply nodded. The site was regarded as sacred. Now she knew why.
“But Hannah and Joseph’s tragic tale doesn’t end there. Both were reborn,” Grandma G. added in hushed tones “One in the nineteenth century and the other in the twenty-first. I will let you guess which is which.”
Evie stared at the dimly seen face. “How can you possibly know this?”
She heaved a sigh. “Because I’ve seen the past and read accounts in old journals and letters. And I have a sixth sense about these things. I just don’t always say.”
“That’s the understatement of the century, whichever one we’re in.” Normally, the woman was as tightlipped as a clam when it came to sharing profundities, and now this bombshell?
“You wouldn’t have believed me even if I had told you sooner,” Grandma G. gently reminded her.
“You’ve got that right. I have no memory of Joseph and Hannah or these earlier times.”
“The house has and is offering you a second chance, child. Somewhere inside, you are instinctively drawn to this place, despite your fears. That’s why Jack can’t keep away. There’s something else you must know. Jack Ramsey doesn’t survive this war either. Get him to the future before the house is ablaze.”
Evie’s chest tightened under the pressing weight of this black disclosure, and the hammering returned. “How do I do that? When does The Burning begin, exactly?”
“September twenty-sixth. This farm wasn’t set on fire until early October. I’m not sure of the exact day, but looting was widespread before then.”
“You said the house was partly saved?” She snatched at the gleam of hope.
“Yes. As soon as the burning party rode off, the family rushed to put out the fire before the entire structure was consumed. And it rained, so that helped.”
Grandma. G. gestured at the wavering room. “This may be the final warble in a while. I better scoot. Oh, and Evie, when in doubt, pray.” She brushed a kiss to her cold cheek and darted away at a fast clip for a woman of her size. She wasn’t kidding about the need to move. Her white-clad figure disappeared the instant she stepped out the door; it shut behind her as if of its own accord.
Thoughts scattered through Evie’s mind like startled geese in heavy mist. Laden with cloth, she sat staring at the cot where Jack lay unaware of these strange tidings and events. It seemed her lot in life to convey weird happenings to him. She couldn’t deny she’d seen the past melding with the present, but still hardly believed her eyes.
Whether or not she had any memory of the tragic plight of the eighteenth-century couple, she sensed the truth of her grandmother’s assertion. The woman spoke with quiet authority and had no reason to make it up, plus Evie had seen the gravestones. The names were faded, but Hannah and Joseph were chiseled deep. Someone, their families, she guessed, had loved the pair dearly to bury them with such care and sorrow. Their pain seeped into the very earth.
Now, here she was, trying to keep Jack alive and get him to the future before he perished, again, in another war.
She’d always sensed Grandma G. knew more than she let on, but dear God. How was Evie to grasp these stunning revelations, let alone convince Jack?
It was true, she had agreed to stay at the house despite her fears, and Jack was attached to the home and the Wenger family. This place had a hold on them both. With Mennonites in his earlier life and his draw to them in his present one, it was no wonder he was torn between fighting for Virginia and the Confederacy and not taking lives at all. He also abhorred slavery, as did the plain people.
Did Evie and Jack’s distant ties to each other account for the instant attraction between them?
Maybe…she couldn’t explain it any other way.
She still didn’t know the chronology of events regarding his fate in this era, but it had to do with Sheridan and The Burning. Surely, Jack wouldn’t remain in the home after it was set afire? That would be insane, and he was smart. Street-smart, she supposed, in the rural sense. Whatever cleverness was attached to secretive country guides fit him.
By heaven, she was determined to prevent his untimely end and get him to the future.
But would he want to go? And leave everything he knew behind?
She sensed a vibrancy in the past that beat standing in line at Wally World, and much of contemporary life. But she didn’t doubt this era held trials and dangers that would dampen her ardor and make her long for modern amenities. Though she doubted anything could lessen her preoccupation with Jack Ramsey.
Chapter Seven
Sounds of the farmstead rousing to wakefulness seeped into Jack’s muzzy consciousness. Bird song mixed with the crowing roosters. One cockerel had announced the dawn since the wee hours, its crow punctuated his dreams. He tuned his ear to hens clucking in the yard outside the bedroom window. Pigs grunted in their sty, cows bawled for their breakfast, and the high-pitched bleat of sheep carried from the distant meadow. The earthy scent of animals drifted inside along with the tangy aroma of hickory smoke from the kitchen hearth.
Ah, yes. He remembered falling asleep on the Wengers’ cot, a thrill darting through him as he envisioned his fair new wife/fiancé slumbering in the nearby bed. Then he recalled they shared the chamber she’d claimed was hers in the future, and he stifled a groan. The day was too early for these confounding thoughts, he argued with himself, but they rapidly returned.
He mused drowsily on the wondrous, baffling young woman he’d encountered last evening and committed himself to in the blink of an eye. Evie seemed in earnest regarding her assertions of another life lived in this house. By all appearances, she was sincere.
How had she come by these peculiar notions? She must have the sight to know all she had professed about the war, but this gift couldn’t fully account for her bizarre claims. Much required an explanation he had none for, except madness.
She didn’t strike him as a lunatic, and he’d known a few, nor was she a liar. He’d read the sincerity in her eyes. The only remaining possibility was that she had spoken the truth, the strangest option imaginable, but he’d ruled out the other choices.
He must be hopelessly muddled to consider the plausibility of her assertion. Damn, he needed coffee.
He’d do handstands and shout hurrah if the dad-blame Union blockade cutting off supplies to Southern ports ran aground and the black brew were speedily restored. Meager substitutes of roasted chicory root, parched corn, or dried beets did nothing to sharpen his wits. He might better understand the fascinating, perplexing creature that was Evie after several bracing cups of the robust drink everyone in Dixie longed for, while Northerners craved Southern tobacco. Let them have it. He didn’t smoke, but badly missed coffee.
It astonished him to think he hadn’t even known the girl for twelve hours. And yet, the bond between them seemed to extend much farther back into the misty recesses of time. From the first moment he saw her, something inside him had quickened and he knew his life would never again be the same. Part of him feared she was the stuff of dreams, a fantasy woman he’d conjured out of his aching loneliness.
Please Lord, no. His gut knotted at the bleak thought.
Jolted fully awake, he sat up in the borrowed white shirt and homed in on Evie’s corner of the room. There. Relief rolled through him.
The muted glow coming through the window revealed her seated upright in bed, a shawl around her shoulders to ward off the chill air. Autumn was upon them, the weather showing signs of the coming change, and her honey-streaked brown hair spilled over her like a second mantle. Seemingly lost in reverie, she stared straight ahead.
What a rare vision to be greeted by first thing in the morning, or anytime. Normally, he was alone, or in the company of gamey men.
Dragging his eyes from her, he explored the clothes heaped in her lap. Where had all that come from?
A hat and bonnet? He hadn’t noted these last evening. Her head was bare. Did he spy a riding crop? Boots?
“Evie.” Reluctant to be overheard by any of the family, he summoned her in a whisper. “What in the world?”
She turned toward him, her face ghostly in the silvery light. “You’re awake.”
“I presume.” Part of him wondered if he were still asleep.
Her answering smile shimmered through him. He wanted nothing more than to tumble with her in his arms and kiss her, but he must think. Brushing back lengths of freshly washed hair, he swept a hand at her. “Where did you get all of this?” He slid his disbelieving gaze the length of her mattress. “Is that a carpet bag?”
“Yessirree,” she said softly. “My grandmother visited in the night and brought me this stuff.” She spoke as if the woman had simply stepped in from the next room.
“When? I must have been dead to the world.” If he’d been on sentry duty, he would have been shot.
“You were sound asleep, but we kept our voices down so as not to wake you,” she confided in equally muted tones.
“Most considerate.” He couldn’t believe this conversation, or the goods heaped on and about her.