Gina relaxed. If Esme was extracting this promise from Drake, it must mean she was about to tell the truth.
“Agreed,” Drake said. “Now, if you will explain how Miss Charles came to be here?”
“She arrived at The Chesterfield on the summer solstice.”
“From . . . ?” Drake prompted.
“From the future.”
Whew. Gina’s shoulders slumped in relief. For awhile there, she had been wondering if Drake was right and she was crazy. But Esme’s simple statement had exploded Drake’s theory all to hell. He looked a little shell-shocked, too, as he stared at Esme with his mouth open.
“Are you quite all right, Mr. Manton?” the housekeeper inquired solicitously.
Gina suppressed a giggle. Esme’s matter-of-fact tone seemed wildly at odds with the words that had just issued from her mouth. Drake had to believe her now.
“I beg your pardon,” Drake said slowly. “Did you just say that Miss Charles was from the future?”
“Yes,” Esme said simply.
“Did she tell you to say that?”
“Of course not,” Esme said reprovingly. “No one could coerce me to say something that isn’t true.”
“Of course not,” Drake murmured, still looking stunned. “Then how do you explain this extraordinary assertion?”
Esme smiled at him. “Quite simply, I don’t. I never explain myself.”
Gina suppressed another laugh and silently wished Drake luck in getting anything out of Esme. Gina had been trying for months without success.
Looking taken aback, Drake visibly regrouped. “Then perhaps you could tell me about Miss Charles’s task?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m quite certain Miss Charles has explained it admirably herself.”
“Then the article is true? I really am going to die on December 22?”
Esme primmed her mouth at him. “It is the most likely possibility at this juncture . . . though not entirely immutable.”
Drake shook his head slowly. Gina knew how he felt. Dealing with the reality of time travel and ghosts was hard enough, but knowing the time and method of your own death must be really creepy.
“So, there is also a possibility I may not be killed on that date?”
Displaying annoyance for the first time, Esme said, “Miss Charles showed you that it is possible to change your fate, as she did Madame Rulanka’s. But if you do nothing, your fate will remain the same.”
Now, how had Esme learned of Madame Rulanka’s changed history? Never mind, Gina didn’t want to know—the housekeeper’s knowledge was too spooky already.
Drake frowned. “I find this very difficult to believe.”
“That’s quite obvious,” Esme said testily. “I should not be speaking of this at all, but you have been so intractable, it seemed necessary.”
He glanced at Gina. “How do I know you are not saying this to keep Miss Charles from going to an institution?”
Esme considered that for a moment. “I suppose you don’t. However, why would I jeopardize my own freedom to confirm her story? If she is judged insane, would I not be risking the same judgment?”
Good point—and Gina could see Drake thought the same. But he was obviously still not convinced.
“I would still like some sort of proof,” Drake said firmly.
Esme’s eyebrows rose. “Really, Mr. Manton. You have my word. What other proof do you need?”
He looked a bit taken aback, but rather than be rude and answer her question, he turned to Gina. “Where is this pistol that is supposed to have sent you back?”
“I told you—I don’t know.”
“And the hope chest?”
“I don’t know—I haven’t seen that either.”
“It is in my room,” Esme said.
Turning to Gina with an intent look, Drake said, “You’ve never been in Miss Sparrow’s room?”
“Of course not,” Esme said. “That is the only place where I can be alone. I don’t encourage the girls to visit me there.”
Gina grinned. Don’t allow the girls to visit is more like it. “That’s right,” she confirmed. “I’ve never been inside.”
“Then describe the chest to me,” Drake ordered.
Gina wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this, but she did as he asked. “It’s wooden, with brass handles, carved flowers all around and her initials on the front. Oh, and there are little drawers at the bottom.” Curious, she asked, “Why do you want to know?”
He turned to Esme. “If possible, I would like to see this chest with my own eyes. May I?”
Esme hesitated, then said, “I suppose, if it will help convince you.” She rose and headed for the door. “Follow me.”
As they followed her, Gina wondered what kind of room the odd housekeeper would have. When Esme unlocked the door and ushered them inside, Gina was disappointed to find it altogether ordinary. Oh, it had more comforts than the girls’ rooms did, and was a bit more frilly than she had expected of the no-nonsense housekeeper, but there was nothing otherworldly about it.
Drake seemed to notice none of it, though. Instead, his attention was riveted on the chest at the foot of her bed. Even Gina was surprised to see that it was exactly as she had remembered, only much newer-looking, of course.
He knelt to raise the lid, and Gina cried, “No, don’t.”
He stopped with an inquiring look. “Why not?”
“Because the last time I opened that chest, it sent me over a hundred years back in the past.”
Drake hesitated and gave Esme a questioning look.
“It’s quite all right,” she assured him. “The time portal only activates on the solstices, and there is nothing inside to worry about now.”
Oh, that’s right. Feeling a little foolish, Gina just shrugged as Drake raised his eyebrows. “Go ahead,” she said. She wanted to know what was inside, too.
She crowded close behind him as he opened the lid, wondering what they would find, if anything. She expected it to be empty, but there was clothing inside.
Looking perplexed, Drake said, “Where are the handcuffs, the badge, and the other things?”
Esme merely smiled. “Is that what she found? I wouldn’t know—they haven’t been placed inside yet.”
At Drake’s confused expression, Gina added, “I saw them in the future, remember? I guess they get put in the chest sometime between now and then.”
He nodded slowly, and she hoped that confused expression meant he was finally beginning to believe her.
“What’s this, then?” he asked, poking at the clothing inside.
Gina took a closer look. “Oh, those are my clothes.”
“Yours?”
“Yes—that’s what I was wearing when I arrived here. From the future,” she reiterated, just to push her point home.
Giving her an odd look, Drake lifted her jeans from the chest and examined them closely. Though jeans weren’t unheard of in this time, they didn’t have the sophisticated manufacture of hers. The stitching and zipper seemed to fascinate him and the Velcro on her tennies even more so.
Gina watched him with a small smile on her face. “So do you believe me now?”
He handed the jeans to her with a faraway expression. “I don’t know. . . .”
Feeling something hard in the pocket of the jeans, Gina fished inside and came out with a quarter. Handing it triumphantly to Drake, she said, “Here, read this.”
He peered at it. “United States of America,” he read. “Quarter dollar.”
“No, the other side.”
He turned it over. “In God We Trust, nineteen ninety-one.”
He stood there stunned, just staring at the quarter for a few minutes as Gina silently urged his skeptical brain to believe in the evidence of his own eyes.
“It’s true,” he murmured, his eyes full of wonder. “You really are from the future.”
Gina rolled her eyes. “Sheesh, it’s about time.” And now maybe she could
convince him to leave the resort to save his skeptical hide.
Chapter 15
Drake handed the coin to Gina and turned blindly to leave. He didn’t know where he was going, he only knew that he had to be somewhere else—anywhere else. With his world turned upside down, he needed to think about it, put it into perspective, find some way of dealing with it.
As he stumbled down the corridor to his office, he was vaguely aware of Gina following him, though she was part of what he was fleeing. He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands, his head whirling.
It was difficult to believe something so impossible, yet he had no choice. His own scientific studies had proved time and time again that Occam’s Razor was valid—the simplest explanation, no matter how ridiculous, was usually correct. So, rather than believe that Gina and Miss Sparrow had gone out of their way to concoct an elaborate charade with increasingly complex props for no discernible purpose, he had no choice but to believe they were telling the truth.
Once he did that, everything else fell into place. All he had to do was believe this one absurd thing—that Gina had traveled through time—and everything else followed with perfect logic.
“Drake, are you all right?” Gina asked, concern in her voice.
No, he wasn’t all right. She had just forced him to believe the impossible. Not only that, but she had predicted the date and manner of his death. “You were telling the truth,” he said in wonder.
“Yes, I was.”
She would have been within her rights to chastise him for not believing her, but she looked more worried than upset. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“It’s all right,” she said soothingly. “It’s difficult even for me to believe.”
All of a sudden, he felt an overwhelming urge to know more. He raised his head. “Do you still have the article with you?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
She drew it out of her pocket with an apprehensive expression and handed it to him. He smoothed it out and read it again, this time treating it as a factual account instead of mere fiction.
“You see?” Gina said. “You must leave the resort right away.”
Drake shook his head slowly. “This part about Mrs. Rutledge can’t be true. I would never have an assignation with a married woman.” Especially one so timid who reminded him of his sister. “Surely you know that.”
“That’s what your ghost said, too.” But she didn’t sound convinced.
“So, if this one thing is wrong, perhaps the rest of it is as well.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make sense. Even if they have that one part wrong, I doubt they would misreport two deaths by fire.”
Unfortunately, she was probably right. “True.”
“So, you’ll leave now?” she asked hopefully.
Leave the resort to save his own skin when he was still needed here? “I cannot—not until I have helped Mrs. Rutledge. I can’t abandon her to the same fate that claimed my sister, not if I have the means to stop it. And now that her husband has agreed to let her continue to see me . . .”
“That again?” Gina exclaimed in exasperation. “But if you don’t leave, you’ll die. And you’ll never be able to join your sister—you’ll remain a ghost, wandering around Hope Springs for the rest of your life . . . er, death. Whatever.” She waved a hand impatiently. “Besides, you’re risking Annabelle’s life, too.”
“But I risk it just as much if I abandon her to her husband.”
“Are you crazy? She’s the one person you must avoid at all costs. If you’re never with her, then you can’t die together.”
“Actually,” he corrected her, “I must only avoid her on December 22. I’m not in danger until that date, right?”
She regarded him doubtfully. “I’m not so sure it’s that easy.”
“Then I shall just have to carry a bucket of water around with me at all times.”
She scowled. “That’s not funny. But it’s not a bad idea. . . .”
“I don’t understand your concern. You’ve done your best to accomplish the task you were sent here to do, and I appreciate it. But if everything is as you say, you will be allowed to go home either way, whether I live or not.”
Angry sparks flashed in her eyes. “But I don’t want to go home if you’re dead.”
He stared at her, puzzled. “Why would my death make you want to stay here?”
“That’s not what I meant at all,” Gina said, looking flustered.
“Then what did you mean?”
“Oh, never mind.” Suddenly, her face brightened. “I know—why don’t you come with me?”
“Go with you? To the future?”
“Sure, why not? You’ll love it there.”
He frowned, not quite as sure of it as she. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“What would I live on? How would I support myself?” From everything Gina had told him, his skills would be obsolete in her time. “No, I’m better off staying here, in my own time.”
“Fine,” Gina snapped. Then, with a glare, she flounced out of the office, muttering under her breath.
As Drake watched her go, he realized that he should have recognized before now how very differently Gina acted from the women of this time. But if this was how women acted in the future—stubbornly independent and outrageously frank—he wanted no part of it.
On the contrary, a small voice whispered. If Charlotte had been born into such a world with such an attitude, perhaps she would still be alive today.
It was now mid-November and Drake had come little closer to helping Mrs. Rutledge deal with her husband. He knew it could take years before she was cured, but he didn’t have years. He had only five weeks left before the date arrived that was now burned into his brain.
Between Mrs. Rutledge’s slow progress, his own looming death prediction, and Gina’s unrelenting pressure to leave, Drake was nigh unto needing the help of a mesmerist himself. To save his own sanity, he had finally convinced Gina to ease up a little, but the stubborn woman insisted on having the last word. She had plunked down a bucket of water in his office, and checked it ostentatiously each morning to ensure it was full.
She had intended it to remind him of his coming doom, but he found it rather amusing. To humor her, he decided to leave it where it was. Besides, it couldn’t hurt. . . .
Drake checked his watch. It was time for the last patient of the day, Mrs. Rutledge. He had increased her sessions to twice a week, but even that didn’t seem to help a great deal. She had become more forthcoming and seemed to trust him, but had made little progress in dealing with her husband. At Gina’s insistence, he had agreed to be a little more forceful this time, in hopes that would yield results.
Gina ushered Mrs. Rutledge into the office then sat in the corner as usual. Gina had promised to keep quiet while playing this propriety role, but that didn’t keep her from taking notes and giving him her plain-spoken opinion after each patient’s session.
And, to tell the truth, he didn’t mind. Sometimes, she caught things he didn’t or had an insight that gave him a fuller understanding of his patients’ problems.
But when she had tried to convince him to install a small couch for his patients to lie on, he put his foot down, fearing his female patients would become alarmed if they had to lie down in the presence of a man. Instead, he seated Mrs. Rutledge in the comfortable chair they had compromised on. How odd—even after all these sessions, the woman still seemed a bit nervous in his presence.
“So,” Drake said in a calming tone, “how did the past few days go?”
Mrs. Rutledge plucked uneasily at her skirt. “Well, Clyde says—”
“I’m not interested in what Clyde says,” Drake interrupted. “I’m interested in what you say.”
“But he’s my husband. I must honor and obey him.” She looked uncertain, which he had to admit was an improvement over the fear and excessive timi
dity she had originally displayed.
“Of course you must,” Drake soothed and ignored the gagging sounds Gina made in the corner. “But he’s not the one I’m trying to help. You are. So, I need to know how you feel and think.” Though he wished he could get the man into his office—Clyde was really the one who needed help.
“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “I see. But I need to tell you what Clyde thinks first. Is that all right?”
Gina sighed in frustration, but Drake ignored her and nodded at Mrs. Rutledge. At least he had made some progress if she were able to question him this way. “Yes, of course.”
“He—he says it’s not working fast enough.”
“What isn’t?”
“Breaking my bad habits.”
Drake suppressed a groan of frustration. Even after all this time, he hadn’t been able to convince her that it was her clod of a husband with the problem, not her.
Drake felt so inadequate. Nowhere in all his readings had he found advice on how to help a woman stand up to her husband. Nor had it even been hinted that such a thing was desirable. What should he do? Perhaps, as Gina suggested, he had been too subtle. Time to spell things out a little more clearly.
“Your only fault,” Drake said softly, “is a tendency to believe everything your husband tells you.”
He could tell she wanted to believe, but it was difficult to overcome years of abuse. “But I must, or he becomes very angry.”
The apprehension in her eyes sparked a question in his mind. “Angry, how?”
She averted her gaze. “He yells at me and . . . and he throws things.”
And that must be very difficult for such a sensitive soul. “Does he do anything beyond that?” he asked gently. “Does he hurt you?”
She shook her head violently. “No!” But she wouldn’t meet his gaze as she rubbed her left arm.
Anger surged through him, but before he could pursue this line of questioning, Gina bolted out of her chair with a militant expression and yanked up the sleeve on Mrs. Rutledge’s dress to reveal several bruises. “Then how do you explain that?” she demanded, pointing at the area the woman had been rubbing.
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