Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1)

by Anne Meredith

  “Grey!” she cried, surprised at his withdrawal. “Just stop and talk to me.”

  “Hush. You’ll awaken Letitia.”

  Her passion chilled, and she gave a soft laugh. “It’s unimaginable, but I’d simply forgotten that tiny detail.”

  His clouded gaze was tinged with resentment and anger—and what else? Fear?

  “Rachel.”

  She turned away from him, ignoring his quiet plea. Was his wife waiting in his bed for his return? The image appeared in her imagination and sickened her.

  He left the room as quietly as he’d come, and silent tears of hopelessness streaked her cheeks in the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In the clearance between two rows of cabins, a bonfire blazed in the mild, early summer evening. The fertile scent of the river wafted over the still night, along with the sounds of lively music and reckless laughter.

  Camisha’s pulse raced as she watched the scene; the ban-jar and the drum reached deep inside her and found a place of abandoned joy. She sat beneath a tree, clapping and keeping time to the ancient rhythm. Beside her sat Hattie and Ruth, the house servants she’d grown close to. Through them, she’d learned that the two hundred people held by Grey Trelawney were more tightly bound than those on the handful of tidewater plantations that held as many workers. In the five years since Rosalie had been built, none had been sold, and few had died. Many had been born, and their family only grew. Trelawney treated his workers well, and Godfrey Hastings ran the tobacco plantation fairly and shrewdly. Three years before, Grey had established a small school for the children, despite the protests of other plantation owners in the region who seemed to think nothing was more dangerous than an educated black person.

  Until James Manning came on the scene, floggings were few and runaways rare. Simply put, they couldn’t imagine a better lot in life. Of course they couldn’t; they’d never known anything different.

  Hattie passed Camisha a mug, and she gave it a quick sniff before passing it on to Ruth.

  “Try some,” Hattie said. “It be good.”

  Camisha laughed. “I imagine so. It smells like two hundred proof.”

  “You let that boy be, Sukey,” Ruth said, swatting her daughter’s bottom.

  The five-year-old laughed and continued to pick at her brother’s head. Dan, the three year old, howled and ducked, waving his hand in distracted fury.

  “What it be like, being a freewoman?” Ruth asked.

  Ruth, no more than twenty, had four children. The others were asleep in a cabin that Ruth shared with her husband, Daniel, and another family. Camisha found the cabins in good repair, as far as slave cabins went. Dirt floors, true, that would freeze in the winter. But the log walls were insulated with clay plaster, unlike most plantation cabins, where bitter cold easily swept through.

  She smiled at Ruth, carefully choosing her response. The girl would likely never know herself the answer to her question. What benefit could come from such secondhand knowledge?

  “You decide what you want in life. And you work hard to get it.”

  Ruth’s perplexed gaze met Hattie’s. “How?”

  “You just do it,” she said with a shrug. How could she explain the countless steps of revelation, the empowerment and autonomy and civic responsibility, that separated slavery from freedom?

  “What you want to get in life that I don’t already got? I got a husband, my chil’rens, food, my home. I have friends. What else is there?”

  “What’s it like, being a sl—a bonded servant, on Rosalie?” Camisha asked instead.

  Sukey plucked at her mother’s apron, and Ruth accepted the sleepy child in her arms, cradling her head against her breast. “You gets up at daybreak and you tends yore chil’rens. Then you all goes in the fields and tends yore plants.”

  “Who tends the children while you work?”

  “Tends the children?” Ruth and Hattie exchanged a look of stunned hilarity, then broke out in laughter. “They works, too! Sukey, she feeds the chickens an’ gathers the eggs and pulls weeds in the garden. Little Dan, he picks worms off the tobacco. They learns to work early, they does, and they learns to work late. We works till candlelight. Then, we sleeps. We sleeps good,” she finished with a cheerful smile.

  Camisha frowned. She’d known all this. She’d just never imagined that a woman could find contentment in such an existence. Immediately, the thought rang untrue.

  The memories of her own time haunted her. In her work, she routinely witnessed unimaginable existences. Babies born with heroin in their blood. Five year olds stealing for older boys. Twelve year olds delivering drugs and finding affirmation in gangs that presented themselves as a ready substitute in the absence of fathers. She thought of the hollow eyes of people who felt powerless to find their way out of a maze of poverty. Could that be called contentment? By comparison, Ruth seemed to live a wholesome, satisfying life.

  Aside from the notable absence of freedom.

  None of it cheered her. She disliked the reminders of two mere clichés of her history that were only a shard of a broken whole. Her volunteer work amplified that bleaker side, a people who were trapped in as nightmarish an existence as that of slavery, but Camisha had been raised in one of those black families no one ever heard about. A strong, loving family. Her father, a police officer in Richmond, had been killed just after Camisha was born. Not long after, her mother moved to Dallas, where her sister lived, and went to work for Max Sheppard. And although—with the exception of Sheppard himself—her memories of her childhood were sweet and life rewarding, she was forced to recognize one undeniable fact. Within the black community in America, just as in Ruth, lived the stubborn, stoic ability to find some semblance of contentment in their lot in life. A disturbing aptitude that was born the first day an African male was captured and torn from those he loved.

  “If it ain’t the missus’s wench.” The soft, cultured voice held an ironic, affected drawl.

  “Rufus, you let us be.” Hattie’s lip curled in disdain.

  “Now, Miss Hattie, I’s jes’ bein’ kindly to the house n–”

  “Stop it!” Camisha jumped to her feet. Her lips went tight as she faced him. She cocked her head to the side, pointing a flattened hand at it. “We get it! You think anyone who doesn’t drop what they’re doing to start burning down plantations doesn’t give a damn about their people. You think you’re better than we are, smarter than we are. Having opportunities in this life and mocking those who don’t doesn’t make you better. In fact, it makes you one sorry excuse for a human being.”

  The music stopped. Along with every other person within earshot, Ashanti stared at her. With the firelight playing over his face, he seemed carved from an ancient mahogany. Ashanti Adams was the proudest man she’d ever known. His eyes were deeply golden, almost green—the eyes of his white grandmother. His nose was straight and strong, his mouth uncompromising.

  Hattie burst out laughing. “You be a troublemaker, boy. You’s getting’ us all in a heap o’ mess, an’ I don’t want no part of you. What you doin’ out here, anyway?”

  Ashanti laughed, and Camisha tried to ignore the stirrings that begin deep within her. Long on common sense and short with those who lacked it, she cared deeply about this man who routinely dismissed good sense when his principles were violated. Since the night she met him, he’d been given few opportunities for flight. And then, like now, he failed to take advantage of it. The thought puzzled her.

  “Did you want something?” she asked.

  “To talk to you.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “So talk.”

  He pressed his lips together, then silently held out an upturned hand to her. After a moment, she put her hand there, feeling the hard strength of him. He was unlike any man she’d ever known, intelligent and contrary, hard-working and fiercely independent, proud and—

  Kind. She remembered the first night she’d ever seen him, soothing a young boy whose father had died of a fever
. The boy had decided to run away, until Ashanti intervened, changed the boy’s mind, and walked him back to his mother’s cabin. Since then, Ashanti had guarded the boy’s steps with a watchful eye.

  He took her hand as he looked at her with that intensity so unique to him; he was as full-strength as a fine Italian espresso. Then, he silently led her away from the group at the fire, and the music slowly faded behind them. The woods were cool as they walked along the river’s edge, and he released her hand. They sat on the stumps of two trees that had been cleared to build the dock where tobacco was loaded before it made its way down the James. The river was quiet tonight, and its soothing cadence melded with the faraway music.

  “How are you, Camisha?” He spoke her name with a lyrical rhythm she’d grown fond of, and his gaze on her was serious.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your wounds?”

  “Almost healed. Why?”

  His gaze rose to the stars that blinked in the black sky, and he smiled. “So these are stars that you’ll see someday, when you return to your old life.”

  She’d told him the truth the first night she met him, and together they’d wondered why she’d been brought to this time, and into his life; she, who loved history and loved to help people, returned to the age that was cruelest to her people. He, who had grown despondent in the knowledge that more than a century would pass before blacks were given the freedom that was theirs by right. And yet another hundred years before they found equality. Now, the reminder of the time that stood between them filled her with melancholy.

  “Well, of course, now we’re looking at stars that also burned hundreds—or even thousands—of years ago.”

  “So another three hundred years from now, they still won’t catch up?”

  “I hope they do, someday,” she said, sobering.

  Their eyes met for a long moment, and he rose abruptly, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he stared out over the river. “I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  The words buzzed in her ears. “Goodbye?”

  “I’m leaving tonight.”

  “Where—where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  The silence enveloped them, and she gave a grim sigh. Then, she burst, “Damn!”

  Ashanti turned, his eyes wide. “What?”

  She sprang to her feet, facing him with righteous rage. “I’ve been sitting over there by that fire, wondering how these people can just accept whatever’s thrown in their faces without even complaining. And you sashay in here and expect me to wave bye-bye when you tell me you’re leaving? After—after—good Lord, man, I thought—” She exhaled impatiently, turning to leave. “Fine. Go. See ya ’round. Don’t let the door hit ya—”

  “You thought what?” he asked, catching her in his arms. His eyes were soft brown now, as his roughened palm skimmed over her face.

  “I thought you cared about something besides yourself.”

  His long fingers curved around her throat, and she saw the poignant yearning in his gaze, blended with passion. “I lie awake thinking of you, wanting you with me. Thinking any overseer’s lash is worth bearing, if you’re beside me at night. Thinking I’ll die if I don’t know you’ll always be there. Thinking I’ll kill the bastard if he ever lays a finger on you again. And then what’ll happen to you?” His mouth tightened bitterly, and his eyes blazed as they searched hers. His palm curved against her jaw, and his voice was a harsh whisper. “Camisha, I love you more than I ever wanted to love a woman.”

  His lips settled softly over hers, and she clung to him. She, who’d ever thought of herself as too strong for any man, reveled in her womanhood as he kissed her with the claim of a man who—

  Who loved her! The euphoria of it rose within her until she forgot to breathe, and the laughter spilled out of her. He raised his head, and though he smiled, she saw the unhappiness in his eyes. “Just the sound of your laughter is enough to send me flying. And I don’t even have the right to ask you to marry me in this godforsaken place. But Camisha—”

  His awkward hesitation was startling, and she lifted her hand to his cheek—lean and strong and warm and reassuring.

  “Do you love me?” he asked.

  “With all my heart.”

  “Then come with me. There’s a boat, waiting half a mile downstream.”

  His words broke her heart, and she knew he felt her hesitation.

  “Are you worried about me providing for you?”

  “No,” she said quickly, hugging him. “It isn’t that.”

  At last he sighed. Then he released her. “It’s her, isn’t it? That goddamned white woman.”

  “Rachel is my closest friend.”

  He nodded, and bitter lines formed around his mouth. “And it sure don’t hurt that she’s bedding down with massa, does it?”

  She slapped him.

  His mouth fell open in stunned disbelief. Immediately, she encircled his neck with her arms. “Forgive me,” she whispered.

  He was stiff for only a moment before he yielded and drew her into his arms.

  “You don’t know Rachel,” she went on. “The truth is, I think I’m here more for her than for me. My mama and me were dirt poor—but I always knew she loved me. Rachel never had that. And now, I can’t stop wondering. What happened to her, that she can’t remember? And what connection could it have to the past? It’s like she said. Nearly three hundred years have passed.”

  He stroked her quietly. For a man with a lethal tongue, he knew how to listen. “I thought I was an enlightened man, and it’s hard for me to believe,” he murmured. “If evil men could journey in time, imagine the havoc they could wreak.”

  “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

  “Well, you think man is essentially good. I know us for the greedy cowards we are.” For some minutes they sat in silence, neither wanting to end the embrace that would be their last.

  “This must have been here when the first slave ships came over.” Camisha traced one of the countless rings on the stump.

  He glanced at a sapling near the stump. “And yet in its shadow grows another. This tree will see the dawning of enlightenment in men’s souls.” His eyes on her were grave. “Camisha, you ask me why you’re here, in my time. I ask you: why can’t you see? You came out of the twenty-first century and into my arms. Me, a free man in a time when only a handful of black men on this continent know freedom. You, with a strength of character surely known by few women of any time. Think of what you can do—in this time, with what you know.”

  She stroked his cheek. “Then—can you wait? Another day, or two? While I try to see what I’m supposed to do? And I’m told Manning’s hours here are numbered. I’d like to see him gone before I am.”

  “All right. But our time is limited, my love.”

  As they neared the group around the bonfire, he squeezed her hand. “If you love me, choose swiftly.”

  She nodded silently and he was gone. The celebration went on into the night, and Camisha left with a heavy burden.

  This tree will see the dawning of enlightenment in men’s souls …

  That night, as she fell asleep, she prayed for the wisdom to make the right decision.

  Just before dawn, she awakened with a jolt, disturbed. The house was silent, but Ashanti’s words echoed in her mind with an urgent, diabolical warning.

  If evil men could travel in time, what havoc they could wreak.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Did you ever hear my father talk about anybody named Jack?” Rachel asked Camisha as they strolled the narrow dirt path behind the cabins. The warm evening was cooled by a light breeze.

  “That name is so familiar.”

  “I know. But I was told my father has no relatives.”

  “What did you remember?”

  “Some conversation I overheard between my parents. My father was mad about a letter Jack Sheppard had written my mother. And he said if he wrote her again, he was going to get him expelled.”

 
“He must have been a teacher of some sort—well, a professor, he wouldn’t have been so angry about a kid with a crush, I’m sure. And this student of his had a thing for your mom.”

  “My mother said—” Her lips curved. “She said he was only a ‘lovesick lad.’ She was English.”

  “Ashanti said something that I can’t stop thinking about. I don’t know why it’s bothering me so. He said, what if evil men could travel in time? They could cause a lot of trouble.”

  “But what does it have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. It’s just a gut feeling.”

  “Ahem.”

  Hastings had materialized between two cabins, and he now awaited Rachel. Last night, Letitia had announced an impromptu supper party for tonight, and the servants had been in a tizzy of preparation since then. Apparently, Rachel’s absence had been noticed.

  “Do I have to?” she whined.

  “Lord Windmere is rather unswerving on the point.”

  She glumly followed him into the house, where dozens of guests had arrived. Rachel had avoided meeting Grey’s wife since her arrival, and she didn’t look forward to it now. Hastings escorted her to the drawing room, where she observed the scene from a spot near the fireplace. Hastings was idly chronicling the guests. Conspicuously absent was Thomas Trelawney.

  “That’s Peyton Randolph. You’ve met him, as I recall. Along with Dunraven and George Wythe. Ah—the gentleman there is Colonel William Fairfax, and beside him is his son-in-law, Lawrence Washington. I believe the boy is Mr. Washington’s brother. I believe the other man with Fairfax is his cousin Thomas, Lord of Fairfax. Remember: address the one as ‘Colonel Fairfax,’ and the other as ‘Lord Fairfax.’” He gestured toward another part of the crowd. “Charles Carter is there, with Mr. Randolph’s younger brother, John.”

  Rachel dismissed the names he recited. “Where is she?”

  “The mistress of Rosalie, I presume you mean, is in the next room with Lord Windmere. Remember as the wife of an earl, she is afforded the title of countess. So when you’re presented to her—”