That was just too much. It was ludicrous to suggest that what she did in her line of work would ever make any difference to anything. “Miss van Kirk, people who romanticize the past—”
“Rachel.” Malcolm surprised her with the familiarity. His gaze on her was sad. “Tell me, dear—have you no fond memories of a cherished childhood home?”
The question stunned and disarmed her.
“Not one warm image of your grandmother, passing down the lore of your family’s past? Have you never wondered if, perhaps, the blood of a patriot flows in your veins? Was there no one to teach you the difference between romanticizing the past and respecting it? We study history not to glorify days gone by, but to understand who we are.”
“If you’ll excuse me—” She abruptly turned away, shocked at the tears that stung her eyes and closed her throat.
How had this old man—a stranger—unwittingly thrust into the most defenseless wound within her? After all these years of hard work, all the therapists, all the years she’d worked to put it behind her, all the years she’d spent trying to love the man who’d adopted her, trying to forget—
Forget what? How could she forget what she couldn’t remember?
Again, the questions haunted her: What had happened during those first six years of her life? Years spent with her own parents, before a man who saw in her a profitable photo-op chose to adopt a disturbed, abused child who couldn’t even speak. A child who couldn’t remember anything about those first six years. Not even her own name.
Chapter Three
Camisha saw Rachel’s eyes focused yearningly on an old home across the way, and compassion welled within her. They’d come a long way since the first night they met, more than twenty years before.
My name’s Cammie. I’m the maid’s daughter. Who are you?
The gangly girl had only stared gravely at her. Camisha’s mother had warned her not to bother the girl, because she was Mr. Sheppard’s brand-new adopted daughter.
That child’s been through worse things than you can ever imagine, honey. She might have a rich daddy now, but he don’t care about her. You let her be.
Camisha, a curious six-year-old, had not let her be. She was a brand new friend, right there in the house! Another month of silence passed while Camisha talked enough for the both of them.
She read Green Eggs and Ham to Rachel until the book was falling apart. Can you say ‘That Sam I am?’ she would ask Rachel patiently.
Rachel would only smile hesitantly and point to the book.
When Max was out of town, Camisha was happiest, because she had a friend. When he was home, she steered clear of him; she knew he didn’t like his brand-new daughter hanging out with the colored help. He’d proven it often enough.
The girl who once couldn’t speak now made her living at it. Even in casual clothes, Rachel was the perfect professional woman.
As Camisha caught up with her, Rachel stared at her with suspicious hazel eyes. Almost flawless pale skin was marred only by a tiny scar at the corner of her eye, in the shape of a crescent moon.
Camisha was heartsick. She knew exactly why Max didn’t want Rachel in Virginia—and it was far more sinister than any theme park.
Rachel thought her father was a rich, misguided racist. Of course, that was true. But she didn’t know the dangerous man Camisha knew. And she had decided that before this day was over, Rachel would know the truth.
When they were children, she had lain awake at night, frightened over how Max might retaliate if she revealed his secret. His threats were effective.
But they were no longer children—and she was past caring what Max might do. In the end, her duplicity had become a self-imposed exile. For so many years, she had dreaded the day Rachel would learn of her deception. Would it mean the end of their friendship? But no matter what happened, that day had arrived.
“When my grandmother brought me here, she showed me William and Mary. ‘That’s where Thomas Jefferson went to school,’ she said. ‘And his blood is in your veins.’”
They both smiled. Whether it was myth or truth, Camisha’s love for history had been born that day.
“Along with the blood of enslaved men and women,” she continued. “But I remember that. I remember growing up in Virginia. I remember Mama tucking me in bed when I was two years old, kissing me good—”
“Stop it.”
“All I’m saying is, the past isn’t always painful, if you aren’t afraid of it. If you know the truth.”
“Easy for you to say. Sally Hemings’ great-great—however the hell many greats apply—granddaughter.”
“Uh huh. Even knowing your ancestors were enslaved is better than thinking your own parents—”
“Camisha,” she pleaded.
Camisha saw the tears on Rachel’s cheeks, and she felt them as if they were her own. She understood her confusion; Rachel hadn’t expected to find any interest in this place. She was strictly gathering facts to use against those who loved the old village. But something within it took her back—and Camisha knew why. They walked along in silence.
“Do you remember the first thing you ever said?”
Rachel swallowed, smiling. “Sure. It was the day Dad offered a million dollars to anyone who could prove Oswald didn’t act alone.”
“And there you stood in that room full of reporters. And when one of them asked you what you thought about your new daddy, you pointed at him and said—”
“That Sam-I-am, that Sam-I-am, I do not like that Sam-I-am,” Rachel murmured.
“First time I ever coached a witness.”
“It’s just that lately, in the last year, since I got the job with Kingsley, I’ve felt this…” She shrugged, wiping her eyes. “Futility.”
She looked at her dearest friend. Camisha’s eyes had softened, and she saw in her the spirit of the young girl who’d befriended her when the girls at Hockaday had merely cast knowing glances and whispered.
“This is the kind of place that makes you wonder what you’re going to leave behind for your children,” Camisha said.
As they rejoined the others, Rachel tried to put herself in the minds of the natives. In the distance, she heard the lively, staccato rhythm of a drum corps. It was an amazing illusion. But for the tourists who roamed about, they might have been standing in the eighteenth century. The place was a collection of anachronisms—and yet, none of it was out of place. They were the anachronisms.
“Isn’t this the coolest place you’ve ever seen?” Camisha asked.
“It’s the oldest,” she said with a mischievous smile. “And the dullest. I’m amazed the human race survived, as repressed as they all were.”
“Oh, honey, you’re mixing up Virginians with Boston’s Puritans. William Byrd had a fondness for making love to his wife on his billiard table.”
Distracted by the bizarre image of a bewigged gentleman in a passionate embrace on a pool table, she giggled. “Who was he?”
Camisha groaned at her ignorance. “Only the most polished gentleman of eighteenth-century Virginia. Or possibly even all of the time since.”
As they headed toward the governor’s palace, Rachel’s gaze was inevitably riveted to the red brick mansion on the right. Something drew her eye upward; the shutters at a second story window had been folded back, and a young girl appeared at the window, dressed in colonial garb.
She darted an alert glance about the street below, catching Rachel’s eye. She was no more than six or seven, tendrils of blonde curling from beneath a dust cap. Lively blue eyes danced with mischief as she blew Rachel a kiss.
Charmed by her ingenuous affection and warmth, Rachel impulsively returned the gesture. She waited hopefully; would the child open the window? Toss off an archaic colloquialism?
“Look at that,” Rachel whispered to Camisha, pointing.
“What?”
“That little girl there. They’ve got her playing dress-up.”
The girl looked over her shoulder. She waved once mor
e before she disappeared, and an emptiness stabbed Rachel.
“Ladies,” Malcolm urged, “we must be moving along. Hurry!”
“Where?” asked Camisha, still peering at the house.
“Oh, forget it, she’s gone now.”
The haunting loneliness of the house returned as the shutters closed, matching her own emptiness.
What would it be like to glance at a window of her own home and find her daughter or son waving at her? It didn’t seem likely, since having a family of her own was a goal she’d never bothered to set. She thought she saw a flicker at the window—as if someone were watching her.
Abruptly, she hurried after the group entering the governor’s palace. A magnificent array of weaponry—hundreds of swords and muskets—gleamed in the entryway, in a beautiful and terrible tribute to power.
Wheelwrights were at work mending wagon wheels behind the palace. Along the brick walls, deep green ivy grew. A pungent aroma pervaded the gardens—not quite offensive, but distinctive. Her reaction to the smells of this place were beginning to annoy her. “What is that smell?”
“Boxwood.” Camisha gestured toward the tall, sculpted shrubs. “That’s the most incredible maze.”
“Smells like a cat,” she grumbled, unwilling to admit the sensation troubling her. The fragrance reached deep within her, searching elusively for a memory.
“Keep it classy, Rachel.” Camisha gave her a wry nod.
“The olfactory nerves are the most emotionally evocative,” Mary reflected, watching her closely. “A familiar aroma can instantly bring to mind events of our childhood.”
“There are some unique smells here,” Camisha said. “And I love every one of them. If you don’t like the boxwood, Rachel, it’s a good thing you weren’t around in the eighteenth century. You’d have smelled a lot worse then.”
The group took a break for refreshment in one of the taverns, and she and Camisha sat at a table in the corner drinking root beer. Camisha looked over Rachel’s shoulder, examining a portrait on the wall. “Looks like Jefferson and Patrick Henry.”
“Who are those guys?” Rachel asked, peering at the portrait.
“I don’t know. Some random guys. Would you look at that,” she said, a smile lighting her face. “We’re sitting in that very corner.”
An interpreter stood nearby, and he seemed pleased at her observation. “You’ve a sharp eye, young lady. No doubt you’ve noticed that Thomas Jefferson and Patrick Henry sit with the group of men.
“This was the period we call the prelude to independence. The portrait was posed during May of 1776 and was a gift to the owner of the tavern from Jefferson himself.”
Rachel turned to peer at the portrait. She recognized Jefferson and Henry at the table. Beside the table, two young men drank from tankards and laughed, the way young men always had and always would.
“Hey, scoot over, scoot over,” Camisha said, grabbing her phone.
They struck a pose on either side of the portrait and Camisha fiddled with her phone. “Aw, man! My battery’s dead. Give me your phone.”
Rachel unlocked it and gave it to her, and they smiled up at the phone, taking a selfie. Camisha then asked the interpreter to take another photo, so the table they were sitting in was included in the photo.
As they left the tavern, two youngsters scampered by, also dressed as colonials. “These children are junior docents,” Mary said. “They work with their parents from time to time.”
“I saw one in the brick house back down the street.”
“The George Wythe house? Near Bruton Parish Church?”
“No. The red brick one across from it.”
The woman gazed at Rachel, unblinking. “That can’t be.”
“I’m sure of it—a charming child. Blonde curls underneath a dust cap, and a pink gown with a white apron. She waved at me. What’s wrong?”
Mary looked down, then shook her head. “It’s a private home. Clara Trelawney lives there alone, and she’s in her seventies.” She turned to Malcolm. “I’m sure I would have been told if she had visitors.”
“But I’m certain there was someone there. Her granddaughter?”
Rachel saw the dotty old couple exchanging mysterious glances, then finally Malcolm spoke. “Clara Trelawney’s only relative in the area lives outside Williamsburg, at Rosalie.”
Rosalie. The name conjured an air of romance and intrigue.
“The woman who owns Rosalie, Lottie Chesterfield, is a very dear friend of ours.”
“Rachel,” Camisha said, with that no-nonsense way of hers, “you imagined that little girl. I didn’t see a thing.”
Malcolm went on, “She’s invited us to her home for supper tonight, and I know she’d love to meet you. Would you join us?”
Once more, Camisha plunged in when Rachel would have declined. “Thank you, Mr. Henderson. We’d be delighted.”
Rachel was distracted by the somber, elegant Georgian home. “You go on with the group. I’ll catch up.”
She crossed the street to the Trelawney home, walked through the white gate and up the walk. She knocked on the door to no avail, and a groundskeeper appeared.
“I’m looking for Clara Trelawney.”
“Mrs. Trelawney’s out—been gone for hours.”
“But…” Rachel gestured toward the windows. “I saw someone, a little girl, in the window—”
He broke into a serene smile. “Blonde curls, pretty as an angel?”
“Yes! Who is she?”
“That’s Emily.”
She looked like an Emily. “Is she a docent?”
He chuckled fondly. “Oh, no. Wouldn’t call her that. Emily’s grandfather built this house; they say that’s why she comes here now.” His voice had fallen to a fond, reverent whisper. “And they say she wears the dust cap so people won’t see her halo and be afraid. Course, I haven’t ever seen her myself—just know people who have.”
“I don’t understand. Does she live here, or doesn’t she?”
“She lived in Williamsburg at one time.” Melancholy mingled with the affection in his eyes. “Emily died in a fire at Rosalie, back in the middle of the eighteenth century.”
Chapter Four
“Ghosts! What a gimmick! How can Kingsley compete with three centuries’ worth of dead patriots spinning in their graves?”
As they returned to their suite, Camisha smiled at Rachel’s cynical complaint. She knew the story about the little girl had disturbed Rachel more than she liked to admit. Hours later, she was still talking about her.
“What’s wrong?”
Her innocent question gave Camisha pause. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it, and stared at the floor for a long time before she looked up. “Rachel, we need to talk.”
She caught the hesitation in her words. More than once, they’d read each other’s minds, and Camisha wished she could do so now. Wished there wasn’t the awful telling still ahead.
“You want to order drinks, or something?”
“No.” If she didn’t get it out now, she knew she might never. And they didn’t need any interruptions.
Rachel sat on the couch, but Camisha paced restlessly. “You remember when you first came to live with Max?”
She nodded.
Why couldn’t she look her in the eye? She felt Rachel’s gaze on her like a steadying hand, but she couldn’t bring herself to face her.
At last, she opened her briefcase and withdrew the old, worn manila envelope. She must’ve opened and closed this envelope five hundred times in the past twenty years.
But never—never—in front of Rachel.
The silver chain slid into her hand—cold, lifeless—followed by the heart-shaped locket. She had to reach into the envelope to withdraw the worn section of newspaper.
She placed them on the coffee table in front of Rachel—as if they were in a high-stakes game and she was all in. The envelope dropped to the table beside them.
Rachel stared at the pile, uncompreh
ending. She glanced up at Camisha. “What is it?”
Just say it. Just get it out.
She’d had a speech all scripted out, but the pretty words of her profession eluded her.
A knock on the door startled them both.
Camisha exhaled.
“I’ll get it,” Rachel said. “You just relax.”
Camisha moved restlessly to the window. The spacious, luxurious room seemed to close about her, and she opened the window, letting in the cool air. She heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. She was beyond annoyed at the interruption; in another minute, it would’ve been out.
But when the door opened, she knew her time was up.
“Dad,” Rachel said, smiling. “What are you doing here?”
“Forget the press conference already?”
At sixty-two, Max Sheppard was still handsome, still fit. Tall, lean, with striking silver hair and wintry blue eyes. Camisha’d always thought he looked like he was made of ice.
He entered the room, noticing her. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Oh, hello, Camisha. Didn’t expect you to be here.”
Her heart was pounding—hard. She hated herself for still fearing him. For still admitting that a man like him could hold power over her.
He held a bottle of champagne. “Consider it a peace offering, Rachel. Since you seem hell-bent on this lost cause, I might as well wish you the best. Thought we’d spend some time together while we’re both here.”
“Thanks. But I thought you weren’t coming in till tomorrow.”
Those glacial eyes flickered over the room. As he placed the champagne on the table, he hesitated almost imperceptibly. His attention was fastened on the newspaper and silver locket.
Camisha watched in morbid fascination, dreading and anticipating the moment he would turn that gaze on her. Would she face him as the bold, articulate woman she’d become—or the trembling six-year-old he’d controlled for so long?
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