by Amii Lorin
Pres returned his gaze to the girl’s wide, fear-darkened eyes. It was a shame, but obvious, that the girl’s top story was to let
The young woman’s physical attributes, appealing as they were, were not of primary concern, Pres regretfully reminded himself. His interest lay in the remarks he had overheard her make upon entering the inn.
The girl had not only declared that General Washington had increased his forces with new units, including a regiment of some four hundred cavalrymen under the command of Count Pulaski, but she had further stated that the commander-in-chief would fail in a surprise attack against Howe’s army at Germantown in early October.
Since they were just entering the waning days of September, Pres pondered upon the note of confidence he had detected in the girl’s voice. A fool? An idiot? A madwoman? Or ...
Being a man of some distinction, and of the world, Pres had heard claims about people who possessed the “sight,” as it were. Considering himself a realist, he had dismissed those claims, and the purported “sighted” people, out of hand.
But, he reflected, supposing there was some truth to the claims, that there were some souls who had an ability to see into the future?
A tingle trickled down Pres’s spine. He could make excellent use of any and all information concerning the unfolding of future events.
Within an instant Pres came to a firm decision, and immediately acted upon it.
“I vow, my horse is receiving better care than I,” he drawled in a tone of studied indifference. Languidly raising one hand, he swept the cloak from his shoulders, and with practiced indolence strolled forward into the common room. “I judge by now the beast has received both food and lodging.”
His dryly voiced comment achieved the desired effect. The innkeeper jerked to attention as though prodded by a white hot poker.
“You wish a room for the night, sir?”
“Indeed.” Pres raised one naturally arched brow. “It is a darkening night, and the wind is rising. I thought it best to seek shelter.”
“Aye, ‘tis so,” the innkeeper agreed in a sage and somewhat ominous tone.
“What with that shadowy figure skulking about o’ late,” the stocky customer muttered.
Pres turned a quizzing look on the bandy-legged man. “Shadowy figure?” he asked, shifting his glance back to the innkeeper, “The vicinity has been plagued by a shadowy figure—a sneak thief, perhaps?”
“Umm,” the man murmured. “Though I’m bound to admit I have heard of no instances of any house here ‘bout bein’ broken into.”
“But there have been reports of foodstuffs and livestock gone missing,” the stocky man volunteered.
“Ah...” Pres said, dismissing the threat with a smile. “I detect a hungry shadowy figure. I find it easy to sympathize,” he went on, giving the innkeeper’s attentive wife a pointed look. “I myself may soon feel the need to begin foraging for a meal.”
“Oh! Oh, my!” that good lady exclaimed, appearing about to run in circles. “Pray, do forgive me! You are hungry, sir?”
“A light repast would not come amiss,” Pres replied, smiling to set the lady’s mind at rest.
The woman bobbed a quick curtsey. “Of course, sir, at once! I have a lovely stew bubbling.”
Pres slanted a glance at the nearby table and the victuals upon it, which the young woman had appeared to have rejected. He understood why; the rabbit stew looked less than appetizing.
“Umm … no, thank you.” Once again, he raised one brow. “A roast of beef, perhaps?”
She appeared crestfallen, “No, sir, I am sorry to say. But there is a meat pie keeping warm by the ovens,” she added brightly.
“The pie will suffice,” Pres said, moving closer to the table, and the young woman who, judging from her expression, was laboring under the task of taking in every word uttered. “You may serve a portion to the... er, young lady, as well,” he instructed the woman, avoiding a second glance at the congealing mess in the wooden bowl.
“Oh... oh, my! I had almost forgotten her!” Mrs. Shelby cried, sending a beseeching look at her husband. “Mr. Shelby, we cannot turn her out on such a dark and blustery night. May she stay, if only for a little while?”
Pres contrived to look bored while the innkeeper fought an inner battle, presumably with his good Christian conscience. Fortunately, the battle was brief.
“She may stay,” he decided. “But she must earn her keep,” he added, giving the girl a hard stare.
“You’re goin’ to house a witch?” The outcry came from the nervous-looking man, who continued to stand back, his hands held protectively in front of his ferret-like face.
Turning slowly, Pres leveled his iciest stare on the sniveling excuse of a man. “My dear man,” he drawled, “only very small children, and very big nincompoops, believe in witches.”
The man was rendered suitably silent.
“And would you desire ale with your meal, sir?” Mr. Shelby put in.
Pres made no effort to suppress a shudder. “Might one hope for a passably decent wine?” he inquired.
Mr. Shelby drew himself up proudly. “I keep an excellent wine cellar, sir.”
“Well... excellent,” Pres praised, bestowing a smile on the now beaming man. “Bring a bottle of your best.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “And two glasses, if you please.”
As expected, his request drew a shocked gasp from the men, a murmured, “Oh, my!” from Mrs. Shelby, and, unless he had misheard, a muffled giggle of appreciation from the young woman.
“ ‘Taint right, givin’ spirits to a youngun,” the stocky man muttered in protest.
Heaving an audible sigh, Pres appealed to his host. “Along with the food and drink, might one also hope for a measure of privacy?”
“At once, sir!” Mr. Shelby agreed, turning on the other three men. “Into the public room, lads,” he ordered, sweeping them before him through the connecting doorway. “Mrs. Shelby!” he called back, jarring that good woman out of her state of shock. “Get about seeing to the gentleman’s dinner!”
Mrs. Shelby proved swifter of foot than had the poor rabbit who had wound up in the stew.
“Ahh, alone at last,” Pres murmured, facetiously, offering the girl a benign smile.
* * * *
“You’re a hoot, you know that?” The wry comment slipped past Faith’s guard; she really hadn’t meant to remark on his performance, but it had been so darn good.
“I do beg your pardon,” he replied, in a startled tone. “A hoot?”
“Oh, come on,” she said on a sigh. “Don’t you think you have all carried this game far enough?”
If anything, this man who had introduced himself as Prescott Carstairs now appeared more confused than startled. The crawly sensation wriggling inside Faith expanded, causing a sick feeling to invade her stomach. She swallowed against a tightness in her throat. They just had to be acting. Otherwise, the only other explanation would be that she was reliving, reenacting the life of the original Faith. And that would mean that she was the original Faith! And that would mean...
No! Time travel was not possible, she assured herself, crossing her fingers.
Was it?
“All?” Prescott Carstairs’ puzzled query broke into her reverie. “I pray you are not associating me with the others here,” he said in a stiff, stern tone. “For I assure you, I have never before clapped eyes on the lot of them.”
“No?” Faith taunted skeptically, absently smoothing her palms over her apron.
“No.”
“Oh.” Faith moistened her dry lips with a quick flick of her tongue and felt a thrill zing through her as his sharp gaze monitored her action. “I... ah, I think I must sit down,” she muttered, sinking onto the end of the hard bench. “If you don’t mind?”
“By all means,” he murmured, inclining his head, thereby nearly concealing the small smile tugging at the corners of his too-attractive, very masculine mouth. “May I?” He indicated the bench opposite her wit
h a negligent wave of one hand.
“Be my guest,” Faith said. Then, as the thought struck her, she added, “You are, you know.”
“Are?” Consternation was written boldly across his handsome face. “Are ... what?”
“My guest.” Faith heaved a deeper sigh; this whole business was getting pretty tiresome. “I am your real hostess. I own this place.”
“Indeed!” The arch in his dark brows inched upward to the lock of equally dark hair which had fallen forward onto his forehead. He seated himself elegantly across from her and stared directly into her eyes. “And do the others herein know?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Well...”
“You think I’m an idiot.”
“Er...”
“Worse, you believe I’m a raving lunatic.”
Prescott Carstairs didn’t squirm. He didn’t even appear uncomfortable. Faith had to give him Brownie points for his cool control under fire.
“My dear Miss . ..” He paused, raising his eyebrows.
“Faith,” she responded. “Faith Sh... er... Faith.” she finished lamely.
“Faith Faith, an unusual name,” he drawled. “In that event, may I address you simply as... Faith?”
“Whatever turns you on,” Faith said a little testily; she was losing patience... or was it her mind she was losing?
An expression of consternation swept over his strong features once more. “I do humbly apologize, but I’m afraid I do not comprehend this ‘whatever turns you on’ expression. Is it a local colloquialism?”
“Slang,” Faith answered without a second thought. “Universal colloquialism, I suppose,” she explained when he frowned. “It means—suit yourself.”
“I see,” he said, giving her a strange look.
To Faith, it was obvious that he didn’t see, and that bothered her. Actually, it frightened the hell out of her.
“Here we are,” Mrs. Shelby called, bustling into the room. “Careful now, the pie is piping hot,” she cautioned them, sliding two pewter plates onto the table, then whipping the wooden bowl of stew and mug of buttermilk away. “I shall return with utensils,” she promised, bustling away again.
The steam rising from the crusty wedge of meat pie tickled Faith’s nose, and appetite. “Umm, that’s more like it,” she murmured, mouth watering as she inhaled the tantalizing aroma.
“Better than the rabbit stew?” he asked in a teasing voice.
“Oh, gag me,” Faith groaned. “I detest it. I think I’d rather starve than eat rabbit stew.”
“I most seriously doubt that.”
There was something in his voice, a wry shading in his tone that caught Faith’s attention. She was on the point of questioning him when Mrs. Shelby scurried back into the room, distracting her.
“Now, then,” she chirped, placing two snowy white napkins and flatware on the table. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your meal, sir.” She turned away, then added in afterthought, “Oh, yes, and you also, Faith.”
Prescott Carstairs made an odd, strangled sound. Faith shot a glance at him, catching him choking on suppressed laughter. She was tired, and she was feeling more apprehensive with each passing second. But her sense of humor was alive and kicking. . . Here she was actually lost in time, yet to her flustered hostess she was no more than an afterthought.
Staring into Prescott Carstairs’ twinkling eyes, Faith burst into laughter. After an instant’s hesitation, he joined her.
They were still chuckling, still staring into each other’s eyes, when Mr. Shelby strode back into the room, carrying a large wooden bar tray bearing a tall tapered bottle and two delicate stemmed glasses.
‘‘Getting on together, are you?” he said, shifting a puzzled glance from one to the other.
“Amazing, is it not?” Prescott Carstairs drawled, slanting a droll look at her.
Faith was forced to cover her mouth with her hand until Mr. Shelby poured the wine and retreated.
“Ahh... alone at last,” she mimicked his earlier remark. Wriggling her eyebrows’ at him, she stabbed her fork—her two-pronged fork—into the pie, snared a good-sized piece, and popped it into her mouth.
In the process of mirroring her actions, Pres glanced up, dropped the fork onto the plate and, tossing back his head, let out another roar of laughter.
Chewing the portion of pie—which was in fact delicious—Faith watched him with interest. She washed the morsel down with a sip of wine, which was likewise delicious: full-bodied and more potent than any she had tasted before. Then she asked, “Having fun?”
He seemed nonplussed for a moment, then smiled. “Another odd expression, but apt. Yes, actually, I am, as you say, having fun.”
“Terrific,” she mumbled, continuing to consume the pie. “I’m glad one of us is.”
“But you were laughing also,” he pointed out, digging into his meal.
Faith shrugged. ‘‘Well, you know what they say... it’s either laugh or cry, and I hate a crybaby.”
“You feel a need to weep?”
“Oh, boy, do I,” Faith replied, taking another, larger swallow of the wine.
“Are you so very distraught?” he asked, frowning as he tasted his own wine.
“Wouldn’t you be, in my position?” she countered, feeling oppressed as she glanced around her at the familiar—unfamiliar—room.
He lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “My dear, how could I know, since I have no idea exactly what your position might be.”
Deciding the time had long since come to cease and desist with this farce, Faith looked him straight in the eye. “Look, Mr.—” She paused, then went on. “May I call you Prescott?”
“My friends call me Pres,” he said,
“Okay, then, Pres, will you level with me?”
He frowned. “Level?”
Faith was beginning to feel as though she was teetering on the edge of a very high cliff, and she wasn’t all that wild about the view, either. “Be truthful with me,” she said patiently.
“But certainly!” he exclaimed, taken aback.
Faith gazed inwardly, into the abyss, then plunged. “What year is this?”
“Year?” Pres repeated, sounding baffled. “You feared I would be untruthful about the date?”
“What is it?” she insisted in a whisper,
“The year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and seventy-seven,” he answered, now looking as well as sounding baffled.
“Oh, gee,” Faith moaned, propping an elbow on the table and her forehead on her hand. “I was afraid you would say that.”
“Afraid?” Pres shook his head. “Of the year? I do not understand.”
“He doesn’t understand!” she muttered, fighting a rising tide of hysterical laughter. Lifting her head from her hand, she cried, “Pres—please, please, admit that you, all of you here, are historians, playacting at recreating a segment of the Revolution, a war that was fought over two hundred years ago!”
“Over two hundr...” Pres’s voice faded, then came back on an incredulous note. “But then, that would make this time, here and now, close to the end of the century ... the twentieth century!”
“Close, but not quite,” she said, releasing a long sigh. “In truth it’s early in the twenty first century. For me it’s Christmas Eve, two thousand and fourteen to be exact.
Taking great care, Pres again placed his fork on his plate. Then, lifting his glass, he gulped down the remainder of the wine. Apparently the liquid fortification rendered him blunt. “Are you claiming to have come here from the twenty first century?”
“I’m not claiming to be anything,” she retorted. “I am from the twenty first century.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying her, then he smiled, very gently. “And pray, how did you travel backward in time to this place ... did you fly?”
As far as she knew, Faith reflected, smothering a giggle, United didn’t fly the friendly skies of colonial Pennsylvania. “No,” she answered. “All I did was wal
k into the yard, into the snow.”
“Snow?” He pounced on the word.
“Well, it was Christmas Eve,” she cried. “The customers had all gone home. I was tired and a little depressed. I walked outside for some air and.. .”
“And?” he repeated, prompting her.
“And.” She made a face, recalling her statement concerning crybabies. “And I buried my face in my hands and cried.” She shrugged. “Then I heard someone call my name. I looked up to see Mrs. Shelby crossing the yard to me. But the yard wasn’t the same.” she rushed on, “There were cobblestones and no snow and ... and when she brought me back into the inn, it was ... different.” Faith ground to a panting halt. A rush of tears filmed her eyes. “Things are changed.” She blinked and gazed across the room. “The garland and my crèche are missing.” She sniffed. “And my beautiful tree is gone!”
“Tree?” Pres exclaimed, drawing her attention back to his amazed expression. “You had a tree growing here, inside the building?”
Faith made a face at him. “No, of course not, silly. I was talking about my Christmas tree.”
“Silly?” he repeated, in a droll tone. “I am silly? You are the individual speaking about trees in the house, are you not?”
“I said a ...” Faith broke off, recollecting that the Christmas tree didn’t come into fashion in the States until somewhere around the early or mid-nineteenth century. “Never mind,” she went on, dredging up a weak smile. “You’re right, I am being silly.”
Pres didn’t ridicule; he sympathized. “Why were you weeping in the yard?”
Faith’s lips trembled. She tried to brave it out, but she lost the battle. “I felt so alone,” she admitted. “I’m going to lose the inn, my home.”
“But surely you have family?”
Pres had discarded his languid pose. Though Faith had appreciated and enjoyed his performance, she much preferred the man behind the facade. She felt somehow safe confiding in him. “No,” she said. ‘They’re all gone. I’m the last of the Shelbys.”
“Shelby?” Pres blinked and cast a glance at the doorway into the -barroom. ‘The innkeeper’s name is Shelby.”