His companion bowed silently, and her head was spinning. Each of these names meant something, but she couldn’t remember what.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you kin to Lord Windmere?”
Wythe lacked the British accent of the other men, but that detail was forgotten as he turned a disapproving glance on Grey.
“Miss Sheppard is a friend of mine,” Grey supplied, ready to answer the younger man’s subtle challenge. “And we’ve come to enjoy the horse races, Mr. Wythe. Surely we can set aside our differences and enjoy a lovely Virginia afternoon?”
Wythe’s gaze was ironic. “If so, we do it at the expense of enslaved men and women.”
“Oh, do shut up, George,” Donovan rejoined. “Now, I’ll make my farewells. And when I see you again, Mr. Byrd, I’ll be the richer man, and you the poorer.”
“Just see that you keep that ill-behaved nag away from my Traveller.”
Donovan jumped the split rail fence separating them from the mile-long circular track. He loped off toward the half-dozen horses assembled there.
Grey braced one foot on the fence and perched Emily on his knee, and Rachel stood beside them. “Which one is Traveller?”
He pointed toward a shaggy-looking animal with a thick, short neck and long, muscular legs. Having spent many of her childhood summers at Max’s ranch in the hill country near Austin, she recognized the power in those legs though she didn’t know the strange colonial breed. Certainly, he lacked the sleek, clean lines of the English horse Donovan mounted. Traveller pawed the ground in unenthusiastic nervousness, as if reluctant to race.
“He’s shy, isn’t he, Papa?”
He laughed. “Traveller? He’s afraid of Dunraven and that devil mare of his.”
“Why?” Rachel asked.
He nodded toward the track. The starter raised a pistol over his head and fired. The horses lunged forward, plowing up clods of damp earth as they charged.
She was dumbfounded at the ensuing spectacle. The riders prodded their mounts mercilessly—snapping whips and kicking the animals’ flanks—and antagonized their rivals with reckless abandon. Some horses were ridden by black jockeys, but most by their owners. She focused in stunned dismay on Donovan Stuart, who leaned precariously out of his saddle and thrust his riding crop into Traveller’s churning limbs. Byrd’s horse ignored the distraction, and the jockey flicked his crop at Donovan as if he were a noisome insect.
She gasped. “Donovan’s cheating.”
“Cheating?” Grey said wryly. “He’s merely playing. The man courts danger.”
“But—”
“Have you never seen a horse race?”
“Not like this one.”
Selina and Traveller were neck-in-neck a few hundred feet short of the finish line, and Donovan guided his horse impetuously near the other. A collective gasp arose from the crowd as he attempted to trip the horse. As they stared in horror, Selina lost her footing. She stumbled and went down, unseating her rider, and Rachel cried out as Donovan was thrown to the ground a dozen feet away. He narrowly missed being trampled by another horse.
Selina tried to stand, but her foreleg was broken, and Rachel recoiled at the sight. Grey swiftly placed Emily on the ground. “Oh, Papa, is Lord Dunraven…dead?”
“I sincerely hope not, darling.”
As he hurried to Donovan, Hastings reached Emily. “Let’s return to town, dear. You’ve had enough diversion for one day.”
“No!” she cried, her shimmering blue eyes focused on Donovan. “I must know Lord Dunraven’s all right.”
Donovan pulled himself off the ground, gasping for breath. He appeared bruised and scratched, but otherwise unhurt.
“There now. He only had the breath knocked from him.”
His horse, however, was another matter. Rachel recognized only too well the unnatural angle of Selena’s leg, and she knew what the broken foreleg meant. Dusting himself off, Donovan limped toward his horse. As he knelt beside her, she raised her head weakly, and he gently stroked her throat.
Someone handed him a pistol, and he stared at it in distaste. He shook his head, passed the pistol to Grey, and turned away, lacking the courage to do what he knew must be done.
Hastings ignored Emily’s complaining as he led her away.
Grey gave Donovan a somber stare, then knelt beside the horse. She knew the respect Virginia gentlemen held for their horses. As he stroked her handsome forelock, she saw his aversion to the unavoidable task, and an odd sensation flashed through her—just as it had that first morning she’d seen him playing with Emily on the lawn at Rosalie. Although she’d heard of the horrible chore of having to euthanize a horse, she’d never witnessed it. How, then, to explain her reaction to Grey’s dismay?
He raised his head, glancing at her, and across the distance, their eyes met. His gray gaze held regret and matter-of-fact acceptance that rang painfully familiar in her heart.
Rachel, I’m so sorry. But she’s in pain.
The voice in her memory wasn’t Grey’s—nor that of the man who’d raised her. Yet it was as familiar to her as her own.
Grey waited until Donovan turned away. Then in one smooth motion he placed the pistol against the horse’s temple, turned his head, and fired the shot that ended her suffering.
In a moment she remembered the dog she’d grown up with, a collie who’d chased the chickens for sport and slept on her bed at night. She remembered the lovingly trusting gaze the old dog had given her that morning Daddy had taken the dog to the vet. And she waited with anxious expectancy, trying to remember more.
But that was all. She couldn’t see the face of the man who’d spoken those grim, reassuring words.
She turned away in dazed confusion, following Hastings and Emily to the carriage. Emotions clamored within her, and she tried to shut them out as Grey arrived at the carriage only a few moments later. His hand closed over hers, and her fingers were cold against the warmth of his.
“She was suffering.”
Unexpected tears blurred her eyes over the death of her dog from more than 20 years ago now. She bit her lip against the sudden emotion welling within her. His roughened fingertips brushed her cheek with tender care, filling her with an elemental yearning.
“I know.”
At last, he climbed into the carriage and gathered Emily in his arms. He comforted his daughter and assured her that Donovan would be well enough to marry her by the time she grew up, if he could reform by then.
She felt Hastings’ gaze on her, but she merely looked out the window as the colonial racetrack faded into the distance.
Who were Malcolm Henderson and Mary van Kirk? And why had they sent her to this time, where only bits of a forgotten past, with no order or thread of connection, were revealed to her?
To find out what the past means to you … and what better place than Rosalie?
As she turned to glimpse Grey stroking his exhausted daughter’s blonde curls, the ache thrummed against her heart.
Chapter Nine
The governor’s palace was teeming with a gay throng when the Trelawneys of Rosalie arrived just after sunset. A lively violin concerto flowed out of the great entryway, where Rachel again noticed the somberly impressive array of swords and muskets. Men and women of the gentry crowded the palace from the entryway through the ballroom, where the musicians played. Countless candles and lamps lit the palace.
Footmen, dressed in bright red and blue, held the doors open for the guests who moved from room to room, and Emily smiled at one, who gave the child a grave nod.
“Isn’t it wonderful for Governor Gooch to host a ball for us?”
Grey stroked her hair absently, scanning the crowd. “He’s a kind man, Em.”
Was he looking for Thomas Trelawney? She wondered.
The ballroom was a colorful swirl of silks and satins, linen and broadcloth. Few heads appeared without wigs; Grey’s was one of them. His black hair shone in the candles’ light, and he glanced at her, catching her adm
iring eye and smiling.
“Would you care for refreshment?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You can watch the dancing in the ballroom, if you like, and we’ll join you there.”
He and Emily disappeared into another room, and as she waited with Hastings, William Byrd arrived. “Good evening to you, Miss Sheppard. Mr. Hastings. Are you enjoying the festivities?”
She nodded. “We were just about to watch the dancers in the ballroom.”
He chuckled and held out his arm, which she accepted. “My dear, there’s no joy in watching life. One must partake.”
“Would you like to dance?” she asked impulsively, thinking she might be willing to give it a try.
“Oh, heavens no. I’m too old. Once I would’ve beat you to the asking, but tonight, there are many able men willing to take my place.”
“Hastings?” she asked.
He offered her a courtly smile. “Thank you, no. As a matter of fact, I see someone I need to have a word with. If you’ll excuse me?”
As she and Byrd watched the smiling dancers, their faces illuminated by candlelight, he spoke. “Grey mentioned you’re a kinswoman of Hastings. Is that true?”
His blunt question, asked without malice, startled her. “No. But I doubt you’d believe the truth.”
“I may be more gullible than you suspect.”
She only smiled.
“I come from the twenty-first century.”
Byrd blinked, then cast her an indulgent smile. “You’re testing my sense of humor.”
“No, it’s the truth.”
“Oh,” he said, as if the thought of a woman from the twenty-first century landing in his drawing room was commonplace. Perhaps he thought it was a new parlor game. “Tell me. In two hundred years, will the mother country continue to treat the colonies as if we were the stupidest of her children?”
Rachel hesitated, suddenly aware that she might be dabbling in a dangerous area. She didn’t want to wind up in an eighteenth-century asylum.
“Tell me,” he said, still smiling.
“In your grandchildren’s lifetime, the colonies will fight and win her independence from England. A war will be fought to erase the idea of elitism—and a new country will be founded on the notion that all men are created equal.”
“Elitism,” Byrd said with a laugh. “One doesn’t need to travel to the future to be told that. You’d hear as much from the drunken rumblings of some of our own. What’s your purpose in this time, dear?”
She hesitated. Dear God, the frivolity of it. “The company I work for is building a theme park in Virginia, and—”
“Forgive me for interrupting, but precisely what is that?”
“Well, my employer is an entertainment company.”
He squinted. “You make a business out of—diversions? Amusements, as it were?”
Only then did Rachel see how strange this livelihood—and the very idea of her having a livelihood—might seem to a man like Byrd. She smiled, and out of habit spoke a language he would understand. “We make a very successful business out of it. Kingsley is one of the most powerful corporations in America.”
“Twenty-first century Americans must have a great deal of time on their hands. Do the bondsmen do all the work?”
“There are no enslaved men or women in my time. At least, not in America.”
He didn’t miss the censure in her tone. “No? Who does the physical labor in this park of yours?”
“Paid employees of Kingsley and our partners.”
“Does it provide them a good livelihood?”
She was given pause. “They make an honest wage, and they’re free to leave whenever they want.”
He pondered this. “Making a business of diversions. How intriguing.”
“Natives of Virginia are fighting the project very strongly.”
“Oh, you would find me a supporter of it. How very delightful, to think play will be as important as work! Do all Americans visit your diversions?”
“Of course.”
“Imagine that. Creating entertainment that even the common man can afford.”
“Well … it isn’t inexpensive,” she admitted. “Some families visit several times a year. Others save years to visit just once.”
And for many children, a vacation at a Kingsley park would never be more than a dream. That, he could surmise on his own.
“Do Kingsley’s workers enjoy the parks?”
“As employees, they can visit anytime they like.”
“So I gather they’re paid a wage that wouldn’t otherwise allow them to visit.”
She went silent.
Byrd smiled at her. “That sounds rather elitist.”
She felt vaguely like a sturgeon flopping in Byrd’s skillfully maneuvered net.
He clapped his hands together, laughing. “I win!” he exclaimed. “Now then, I’ll start the next one. I come from the twelfth century.”
“I see,” she said, relieved that he’d written the whole thing off as a game. “What is the medicine like in your time?”
A voice spoke from over her shoulder. “Oh, heavens. Is it politics or alchemy we’re discussing?”
Donovan Stuart had arrived, looking none the worse for his accident this afternoon.
“Stuart, you owe me a great deal of money.”
Donovan grinned at her. “Isn’t he without decency? I lost my dear Selina this afternoon, and—”
“And that doubtless grieves you more than the loss of Miss Eggleston.”
“The horse was kinder to my purse.”
“Would you care to join us in a game of I Come From the Twenty-First Century?” Byrd asked. “It’s quite invigorating to the imagination.”
“That’s a new game you’ve invented, sir? I had more physical pursuits in mind. Miss Sheppard, would you join me in the next dance? They’re lining up now.”
“Stuart, you have a dreadful limp. Dancing might prove fatal.”
The soft voice held ironic threat. Donovan frowned and turned. “Must you forever be sneaking up on me?”
Grey smiled and held out his hand to Rachel. “Miss Sheppard is my guest, Donovan. Can I trust you with my daughter?”
“Of course, papa. He’s my fiancé, you know.”
As Grey led Rachel to the floor, he smiled. “Forgive me for taking so long. I didn’t mean to leave you defenseless.”
“Mr. Byrd entertained me.”
“Are you familiar with the reels?”
She shook her head. “No, but I think I can follow along.”
The music began, once more a spirited tune. She was able to follow the dance without any trouble, and when she once more met her partner, he murmured, “I thought you didn’t know the dance.”
Then he was gone again, and Rachel was left to smile breathlessly after him. How did she know it?
The dance continued on into the next song, and as Grey grasped her hand and twirled her underneath his arm, he laughed. “At this rate…”
You’ll be the finest dancer in the Shenandoah Valley.
Suddenly it was no longer Grey’s hand brushing hers, but a man whose voice was beginning to haunt her. It was no candlelit royal governor’s mansion, but a bright sunny afternoon, on a soft grassy lawn. Another child’s laughter rang in her ears. Now me, Daddy! Now me!
Rachel blinked, suddenly jarred from the fleeting memory as someone bumped her, then stopped. “Oh, forgive me,” the man said.
Caught up in her memory, she had stopped dancing in the middle of the reel and now gazed at the dancers who, one by one, also stopped.
Dear God, what was happening to her?
Chapter Ten
Rachel felt Grey’s hand on hers, gently drawing her away. “Are you all right?”
She couldn’t speak. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and he escorted her through the doors at the back of the ballroom. A footman stood near the door, and he stepped aside, bowing.
The stately courtyard of the pala
ce spread out before them, cool and dark and green. Grey led her down a path. They walked in easy companionship toward the canal that ran alongside the gardens. The evening was cool and they were sheltered within the immaculately sculpted boxwoods.
When they arrived at the edge of the water, he gestured to a bench. She sat there, still wrestling with the snippets of memory she’d glimpsed. She closed her eyes, relishing it. A man’s face—indistinct, but very much beloved.
“What’s wrong?”
His voice was soft, and she looked up at him. In the moonlight, his eyes seemed brighter against his tan face; lines were etched at the corners of his mouth.
She hesitated, her mouth opening and closing indecisively.
He gently covered her hand with his. “Am I not your friend?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “You are.”
“Then tell me.”
She was suddenly aware of the warmth of him next to her, of the soft curve of his lower lip as he frowned, of the uniquely male strength of him. She rose from the bench, and she felt his gaze intent on her.
“My parents died when I was six years old,” she began quietly. “I’ve never been able to remember anything about the time I had with them. Not what they looked like, not what their names were. Nothing.”
He waited silently.
“But since—since I’ve known you, fragments of memories come to me. Watching you with Emily, seeing how you love her—”
She stopped, unable to speak for the unbearable melancholy.
He rose from the bench, reaching her in a moment. Silently he drew her into his arms, and something inside her unraveled. Cupping the nape of her neck, he let his fingers loosely slide into her upswept hair, gently pressing her face to the solid strength of him. Tears fell to the white silk stock at his throat, and he stroked her back. “It’s all right.”
Swept with sudden awareness of him, she awkwardly pulled away.
“Do you want to go back inside?”
“No—not just yet.” She heard the huskiness in her voice. “Can we—walk a while?”
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