by Tamara Gill
“Had enough, or do you want some frozen yogurt for dessert?” asked Logan at last, gathering the disposable debris and piling it onto the tray.
“No, thank you. This was wonderful. I had never, I mean, I have always loved cheeseburgers. And . . . and Coke, and fries . . .” Logan's slight frown warned her that she was overdoing it. The meal had been wonderful though—and not only because of the food. Already her sudden desire to return home was ebbing.
“So, Kathy, are you shopped out yet?” asked Logan.
“Heavens, yes.” She almost mentioned the prices, but remembered in time that Kathryn would not have found them remarkable.
“Let's go, then. I parked on the roof this time, so we'll take the elevator.”
Catherine's eyes widened at the sight of the glass-sided box that descended to open its silvery doors in front of them. The escalator had been fun, but this flying glass box . . . !
Behave as Kathryn would!
Chin up, she stepped into the elevator ahead of Logan, trying to look as though she had done so a hundred times before. He followed her in and the doors closed behind them, apparently of their own volition. Logan pressed a little round light on a panel beside the doors and they began to rise into the air, the mall spread out below them. Just as she began to enjoy the ride, though, the elevator stopped and reopened its doors to bright sunlight. Catherine blinked.
“It's over here,” said Logan, leading the way back to the car.
This time Catherine was ready for the roar of the engine and did not flinch when he turned the key in the ignition. As he had before, Logan drove very carefully, and more slowly than Catherine would have liked. She knew he was watching her out of the corner of his eye and wondered if she should pretend to be nervous in order to appear more like Kathryn. But if she did that he would never drive any faster. Better to make him believe she had overcome “her” fear. She looked out of the window, taking in the incredible changes two centuries had wrought on the city.
“You weren't kidding,” commented Logan after a few minutes. “You really are a lot calmer in a car than I remember. Still, I don't think I'll ask you to watch me race.”
“Oh, do you . . . I mean, I would like to see that.”
He looked at her curiously. “Are you serious? You always hated the fact that I raced—even more than your father did.”
Catherine had no idea what he meant, but she didn't want to miss a chance to see these wonderful cars race each other like horses. “I am perfectly serious.”
“I'm tempted to call your bluff. Okay, if you mean it, I'm planning to race at the Speedway on Friday. Are you game?”
“Certainly!” Her smile seemed to convince him that she was sincere. He gave her another sidelong glance and lapsed into silence. The trip home seemed shorter, and Catherine was disappointed when he dropped her off at the front door.
“You're not coming in?”
“No, your father wants me to see a project he's considering out near Lake Murray. I'm picking him up at his office. We'll probably be back in time for dinner.”
Catherine thanked him for the ride and watched him drive away. Dinner? Wasn't that what they had just eaten? No, Logan had called that “lunch.” Dinner must now mean the later meal she'd known as supper. So many little things to learn about this time—and big things, as well! She began to climb the front steps, but just then Annette's brown car pulled into the driveway and Catherine went back down to greet her. Along with clothes and toilet articles, she had brought an armload of books.
“Are you doing some kind of research project, Annette?” Mrs. Sykes-Monroe asked when she saw the stack of volumes.
“Not exactly,” she answered. “I've been thinking about taking some courses at USC while we're stationed here, so I want to bone up on the subjects I'm weak in before I take the GRE.”
“You certainly had a quick answer for my mother,” commented Catherine when they were alone in her room a few minutes later. “What are USC and GRE?”
“USC is the University of South Carolina—I think it was South Carolina College in your time. And GRE stands for Graduate Record Exam. It's a test colleges require before they'll admit you to graduate school. And it's true, I am thinking of enrolling, so I didn't exactly lie.”
“Do you have a college degree?” asked Catherine, impressed. When Annette nodded, she breathed, “I've never known a woman with a college degree before. That is wonderful!”
“You make me feel like a genius,” laughed Annette, “which I'm definitely not! Nowadays just as many women go to college as men. There are female executives, doctors, lawyers, you name it. That's one way the world really has improved since your time.”
Catherine shook her head. “I don't know if I will ever take it all in, or get used to it—but I like it. Perhaps I will go to college . . . if . . . if I stay here long enough.”
Annette frowned. “Yeah, if. I wonder how Kathy's managing. The MPs still haven't found my purse and I'd sure like to get that diary back! She went to college too, you know—we were roommates at William and Mary. Neither of us were exactly Phi Beta Kappa material, but she did pretty well in theater and political science.”
“The College of William and Mary? In Williamsburg? I knew a young man who went to study there.”
“Well, I don't expect I knew him,” said Annette with a chuckle. The humor of it struck Catherine as well and the two of them burst out laughing.
“We can't enroll you in school right away, but you can get a start on your studies with these,” Annette said once they sobered. “It would quicker on a computer, but it looks like Kathy only brought her phone and your mom would know something was up if I had to teach you how to use theirs. Anyway, I got you a book on South Carolina, and a recent history of the United States, from the Civil War on.”
Catherine had been about to ask what a computer was, but Annette’s words distracted her. “The . . . Civil War?”
Annette groaned. “You'll have to read these books. I'm afraid I'm no expert—I used to sleep in history class in high school and never took any in college. About all I remember about the Civil War is that it freed the slaves.”
“Freed the slaves? At the mall I saw quite a few free Negroes. There were almost none in Columbia in my time. Are they all free now?” She was delighted.
“Of course. And they prefer to be called blacks, these days, or African-Americans.”
“Why, that is wonderful! To think I was arguing with my father over his treatment of the slaves only yesterday. When was this Civil War?”
“In the 1860s, I think. I told you I'm not real big on history. Anyway, I also brought you a couple of novels, to give you an idea of the culture now—but don't take the stuff in there too literally. I figured you could pick up some slang that way, at least. It's an awful lot to read, I know, but you can do a little at a time. And tonight we're going to watch at least an hour of prime time TV. How's that for a beginner's course on the twenty-first century?”
“I read rather quickly, for I love it—the local bookstores never ordered enough to satisfy me. And of course, Mother never considered it as proper a pastime as embroidery.” She made a face. “I can scarcely wait to start on these. But what is . . . prime time teevee?”
That started Annette giggling again. “You'll see. I just hope we can manage to be alone when I turn it on, because I can't wait to see your face!”
***
CHAPTER FIVE
Kathryn was absolutely furious.
This morning she'd had her first encounter with Mr. Prescott since the party. She had been halfway down the stairs on her way to breakfast, feeling perfectly glamorous in a lacy dress of green and white, when he'd spotted her from the hall.
“A word with you, Missy, if you please!” he almost thundered, startling her to a standstill.
Mr. Prescott's florid complexion was even redder than usual at the moment. Kathryn merely regarded him questioningly, wanting to be absolutely certain what he was angry about before a
ttempting to defend herself.
“Yes, Father?” she said in what she hoped was a suitably submissive tone of voice. Her own father never shouted at her, and she doubted she'd be able to control her temper if this man started bullying her.
“Don't you 'yes, Father' me, young lady! You know perfectly well what I have on my mind, and if you were hoping that one day would make me forget, you are far off the mark. It merely gave me more time to consider a just punishment.”
Kathryn sucked in her breath. “Punishment?”
“Punishment,” he repeated. “You knew damned well you were to stay away from that horse. That brute Xerxes is dangerous—you could have been killed! Do you know why I sold him to Colonel Hampton? I'll tell you why,” he went on, before she could answer. “Because I knew you wouldn't be able to resist trying your hand at him. I know I used to encourage you in such escapades, but your mother is right. You're a young lady now and it is no longer proper—or safe!”
“I wasn't hurt, was I?” She kept her voice low, trying to suppress her resentment. At least he seemed more concerned with her safety than the wretched horse's, unlike Mrs. S-P.
“No, thank God. It seems your time in high society didn't quite drive all of my lessons out of your head.” A ghost of a smile flitted across his face, but then his expression hardened. “Still, I plan to make damned sure you never take such a risk again.”
“I'll do what I damned well please,” Kathryn snapped before considering her words.
His beefy jaw dropped. “How dare you use such language to me, young lady! I was going to forbid you to ride for a week, but now I'm minded to make it a month. Until I say otherwise, you are not to mount a horse at all . . . except in the company of young James. Now what have you to say?” He clearly expected that condition to upset her as much as the restriction—and if she'd really been Catherine, it probably would have.
“Very well, Father,” she said, narrowing her eyes wickedly. “May I send a note to Mr. James asking him if he'd like to go riding?”
Mr. Prescott's jowls quivered and his face darkened even further. “You . . . you young hussy!” he spluttered at last. “You may spend the remainder of the day in your room for your impudence, that's what you may do. Upstairs, Catherine! At once!”
Kathryn's eyes widened in disbelief. Was this man actually sending her to her room? “You can't be serious?”
“If you are not up there in ten seconds you'll discover just how serious I am!” Mr. Prescott advanced menacingly on her, and though she could see pain mixed with the anger on his face, she took a step backward. Her own father had never lost his temper like this.
“Catherine, please,” pleaded Mrs. S-P from the dining room, appearing almost frightened by the scene she had come out to witness. Kathryn considered bolting for the front door, but doubted she'd make it past the enraged man facing her. And where would she go then?
“You needn't shout, Father,” she said softly, to emphasize his lack of control. “I just remembered something I need to do upstairs.” She turned as casually as she could manage, drawing on every ounce of her stage training, and made a graceful exit up the stairs. She could tell from the blustering below that she had effectively taken the wind out of “Father's” sails and smiled in bitter satisfaction.
That smile disappeared abruptly a few minutes later when she heard the incredible sound of a key turning in the lock of her bedroom door. He wouldn't dare! But when the knob would not turn under her hand, she was forced to admit that she was indeed locked in her room. And for a sin she hadn't even committed!
She threw a silver-plated hairbrush across the room in a fury, narrowly missing the mirror. “I want to go home now!” she shouted to the empty room. “Whoever's idea of a sick joke this is, listen to me. I've had enough. Send me back.” She waited expectantly for a moment, but nothing happened.
Kathryn flung herself into the chair at her dressing table and fumed at her reflection. “I can't handle this,” she informed the girl scowling back at her from the mirror. “I just don't have the temperament to be a second-class citizen.” She paused, observing her image critically. “You're awfully pale, you know. That's probably the in thing now, but I don't like it. First chance we get, you and I are going to spend some time in the sun.”
Feeling a little calmer, she tried to think rationally. So what if she couldn't ride? She didn't believe in it, anyway. It was no hardship to have it forbidden.
But it was no use. She didn't have it in her to let a man—any man—dictate to her. Her feminist beliefs went far deeper than any ARF rhetoric. Kathryn went to the wardrobe and pulled out the habit she'd worn yesterday. The three middle hooks were beyond her reach, but she didn't really care. If the slightest opportunity occurred, she damned well intended to ride.
On that thought, she got up and went to look out the window. The ornamental shrubs and flowers in the gardens were lovely, but she was more interested in finding a tree close enough to her window so she could escape. There wasn't. However, as she opened the sash, she saw a rider in the lane that ran along the side of the property. Ryan James!
Kathryn leaned as far out of the window as she dared and whistled piercingly. As she'd hoped, Ryan looked her way and spotted her as she waved her arms wildly. Undoubtedly curious as to the cause of this unusual display, he tethered his horse to the fence and opened the gate leading into the gardens.
“May I be of some assistance to you, Miss Prescott?” he asked when he stood directly below her, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You most definitely may,” she replied, acting as coquettishly as she could. “Would you inform my parents that you wish to take me riding again? I'll explain once I'm out of here.” She hoped the vagueness of her reply would pique his curiosity enough for him to do what she asked.
“In trouble, eh? Very well, but you will owe me yet again, Miss Prescott.”
Kathryn ran back to the dressing table and patted a few stray hairs into place. Oh, for some makeup! She felt naked without it. Except for a couple of times when she'd been sick in bed, she couldn't remember a day since junior high that she hadn't worn it. She'd have to check some of the stores in town. Maybe if she was discreet she could use just enough to bolster her confidence without causing comment from Catherine's parents.
A knock at the door, followed by the key turning in the lock, interrupted her thoughts. “Catherine, Mr. James is here and would like you to ride with him,” said Mrs. S-P, peering anxiously around the door. She stopped and stared, obviously amazed to see Kathryn already dressed for riding. “Your father has gone out, but he did say earlier that you could ride with Mr. James. So if you wish to go . . .”
Her mother was obviously hoping she would refuse, as Catherine apparently had been doing whenever Ryan invited her out, but Kathryn was more concerned now with escaping than she was with staying in character.
“Certainly, Mother, I'd love to,” she said breezily, watching the woman's expression change. “Would you mind doing up these last hooks for me?” Reluctantly, her mother complied. Kathryn smiled her thanks, then swept past her to go downstairs.
Ryan was waiting in the hallway, looking particularly handsome in his cutaway coat and high collar. There was something to be said for these old-fashioned styles, thought Kathryn, gazing at him appreciatively. They might not be as comfortable as the modern ones, but the men looked like men and the women like women. She'd never cared for androgynous clothing and hairstyles, and had always been careful to cultivate a feminine image for herself.
“Why, good morning, Mr. James,” she called out, and was gratified to see his eyes light up as he caught sight of her. “Whatever brings you here this morning?”
“You do, of course, Miss Prescott,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye. “I found myself somehow drawn here.” Kathryn was glad her back was to her mother, or her expression might have aroused suspicion. “Shall we go?” she managed to say without a quiver in her voice.
As he did yesterday, R
yan bowed her out of the house and they waited on the front steps for the groom to bring her horse around. “Now, what is all of this about?” asked Ryan in an undertone as soon as the door had shut behind them. “Believe it or not, I do have some business to attend to this morning.”
“You can attend to any business you please once we're away from the house,” replied Kathryn. “I just needed a means of escape.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow and waited for her to continue, but at that moment the groom rounded the corner, leading the mare Kathryn had ridden yesterday. As before, Ryan tossed her into the sidesaddle, but instead of gasping, she reveled in his brief touch. She arranged her legs herself, and couldn't help a small smile of triumph at the accomplishment.
“We won't be needing you today, Jeller,” said Ryan abruptly to the groom. “Isn't that right, Miss Prescott?” His gaze challenged her.
“That's right, Jeller. We won't be gone long.” The groom bowed his head, though his eyes were alight with curiosity, and he went back to the stables.
“I hope he doesn't mention this to my mother,” said Kathryn as they turned the horses. “I wasn't sure I could talk freely in front of him.”
“Oh, Jeller's all right,” Ryan assured her as if he knew. “But I wanted a bit of privacy. What exactly is going on?”
Kathryn related the scene with her father that morning, concluding, “So you see, you were the only one who could rescue me. Don't you feel like a knight in shining armor?”
“Is that how you see me?” They stopped a few blocks from the Prescott house. An open cotton field stretched before them; overgrown azaleas in full bloom crowded along the edge of the field and pines whispered overhead in the spring breeze. No one was in sight.
“Right now, I do,” answered Kathryn softly, with a warm smile. She was very conscious of his overpowering masculinity. He returned her look, and she had the disconcerting feeling that he was reading her thoughts. Swinging down from his horse, he held a hand up to her. Kathryn hesitated only the barest moment before allowing him to hand her down from the saddle, her eyes never leaving his. Instead of releasing her hand after she dismounted, he pulled her closer to him. Boring into her very soul with dark, hypnotic eyes, he lowered his lips to hers.