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

by Anne Meredith

  “People of all color play that game all the time. What if Lincoln had had his way and shipped everyone back to the motherland? Never mind how he would’ve sorted out who went where. Honey, you know they’re still selling human beings in Africa, don’t you? In Pakistan? In freaking Haiti, 800 miles from Florida? We don’t like to talk about that, do we? Maybe that’s the dark continent’s payback for their enabling slavery; a continent made up of third-world countries. And imagine America without any black faces. No open heart surgery. No traffic lights. No jazz. My God, Rachel, imagine America without Elvis Presley!”

  “Elvis Presley?” Rachel asked. “He was white.”

  “Yeah, but his music was about as black as it comes,” Camisha smiled knowingly. “Girl, for somebody who’s so smart, who knows me so well, you sure can be dumb sometimes. How many times have we had this talk? I am not defined by my skin color any more than you are. Slavery happened. But it doesn’t make me think I’m any less of an American. Either way, it’s only one little part of our history, an even smaller part of mine, and it doesn’t define who I am. It’ll take another hundred years or so—and I mean from our time—before the world catches up with us. But girl, it’s catching up.” She put her arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “Now, I got me a man a-waitin’.”

  They laughed.

  When Rachel opened the door, they both fell silent.

  The sun was sinking into the trees, and a crowd of hundreds—men, women, and children, all strangely solemn and jubilant—waited in the clearing. Some from other plantations had been allowed to attend. A bonfire blazed brightly, casting earthy shadows across the expectant faces. The soft beat of a drum provided a peaceful, lulling beat, and a man sang softly.

  Just outside the door, Ruth waited with several other women, watching Camisha. Feeling suddenly out of place, Rachel started to step away, but Camisha caught her arm and smiled. Camisha followed behind the women who led them to the clearing, and only when she saw Ashanti did she step away from Rachel, moving to stand beside Hattie.

  Ruth’s husband stood before the crowd. Daniel was at least ten years older than Ruth, and he stood as tall as Ashanti. Rachel knew little about him except he had been educated, and that he served as a preacher for the Trelawney community of enslaved workers. He moved with calm deliberation, and his normally somber bearing was even graver tonight. He waited until the singer finished and the drum stilled before he spoke.

  “Brothers and sisters, we stand in the presence of the Lord tonight to witness a promise to Him. Many of you don’t know Ashanti Adams as I now do. Although he is a free man, he has lived among us, as one of us. He is a man who prays for the day when all black men can know the freedom he knows. And he knows, as we do, that this day may not happen in our lifetime. But it will come to pass, in the Lord’s perfect will.”

  His words pierced Rachel. How mysterious, faith; how miraculous, hope.

  A quiet murmur of affirmation circled around the crowd, and the sound reassured her. They were the same amens Rachel had heard on Sundays when Max was out of town and she’d gotten to sneak away to church with Camisha and her mother and aunt.

  “Camisha Carlyle, too, is a free woman. She has agreed to become Ashanti’s wife, and to please God, she wants to pledge her life to Ashanti.

  “Most of us can appreciate why they come before us today—each day God gives us a gift of life, to be given back to Him. He will watch over them in the journey they begin today.”

  Two brooms were placed parallel on the ground between Ashanti and Camisha, and they stood facing each other. They seemed little aware of the crowd as Daniel spoke. “The straw of the broom means life. May the life you share be long and healthy, and may the children you’re given be many.”

  Rachel felt a sudden warmth near her, and she glanced over her shoulder. Grey stood there, and when his gaze dipped to hers, she abruptly turned back to the wedding.

  Daniel accepted the jug passed to him. “The libation means happiness,” he went on, pouring a stream of the spirit between the brooms. “May your days be filled with joy, and guided by the Holy Spirit.”

  He placed the jug aside and said, “Now, Ashanti and Camisha would like to say a few words.”

  Ashanti’s dark eyes moved over Camisha’s face, and at last he spoke. “Camisha, my life began the first moment I saw you. In you I have found happiness no man has the right to expect. Once I prized freedom above my very breath—but freedom without your love has become true bondage. Today I pledge to you my heart, my body, my life. No matter where life takes us, I vow to God I’ll cherish and protect you. Till death do us part.”

  A few nearby murmured, and only later would Rachel learn that the vow enslaved men and women traditionally made was till death or distance do part us.

  “Ashanti,” Camisha said, and her voice was soft as she looked at him. The crowd leaned in to hear. “I’ve never known another man like you. With you I know I am loved for the better part of me—and without you I cannot see the better part of me. Today I thank God that He led me to you. And today I give you my love, my respect, and my devotion—for all times. Till death do us part.”

  As she spoke the words, her gaze intent on Ashanti, tears clouded Rachel’s eyes. Common sense said this was only a temporary marriage—lasting just until they returned to the twenty-first century. But somehow she knew that today she was losing a part of Camisha that would never return. The many moments they’d shared together flitted through Rachel’s memory as she futilely wiped at the tears streaking her cheeks.

  My name’s Cammie. I’m the maid’s daughter. Who are you?

  The six-year-old Camisha who had rescued Rachel from a hopeless grief.

  Don’t let that boy treat you that way, Rae. Want me to beat him up?

  A nineteen-year-old Camisha who had reassured Rachel that nothing was wrong with her, just because she had no desire to sleep with a college boyfriend.

  I did what I had to do. Only cared about two people, and that man had the power to hurt both of them.

  And a twenty-eight-year-old Camisha who had for all those years suffered to spare Rachel pain.

  Now, that Camisha was gone—the devotion that had sustained Rachel in her darkest hours, rightly pledged to the man she loved. Rachel was happy for her. But somehow—she knew the vows spoken here today had changed their lives forever.

  Grey’s hand brushed her shoulder, and she accepted the elegant handkerchief he handed her. His gaze was reassuring yet troubled.

  Daniel stepped between Camisha and Ashanti, joining their hands under his. “On this joyous day and in all the trials and joys ahead, I wish you God’s richest blessings. May He chart your days and make warm your nights. And what God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  He stepped back, releasing their hands as they leapt over both broomsticks.

  A gasp arose from the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Camisha, too, stared in dismay at her broom. As she’d jumped, her foot had grazed it, and it now lay awkwardly across Ashanti’s.

  Puzzled at the anxious glances the women nearby exchanged, Rachel looked at Grey for answers. He shook his head.

  Daniel took the couple’s hands in his and bowed his head, offering an earnest prayer for the couple. When he ended the prayer, the assembly enthusiastically amened. Then Ashanti bent to gather Camisha in his arms and strode toward a row of cabins. There, a new cabin had been built last night, raised by Ashanti and a few other men working after dark. Within its new walls, Ashanti disappeared with Camisha. A cheer of joy rang in the gathering, and the drummer began pounding out an exotic rhythm, lively with sensual joy. Two other sounds joined in from several men and women; one was that of a strangely shaped instrument, the other the pulsing hiss of gourds containing beans.

  Some men and women joined in the ancient dance near the bonfire; others joined in the feast. Rachel’s awkwardness returned. No matter how close she and Camisha had ever been, this was a part of her friend that she had never been able to clai
m as her own. Now, she grew painfully aware of Grey standing quietly at her side, watching the proceedings.

  “Look at Emily,” he remarked, chuckling.

  She played with the other children in the dirt near one of the cabins, her blonde curls tied up in a bandana as she indelicately leapfrogged over Sukey’s back. The commonplace sight troubled Rachel. Children had to be taught hatred. In another time, their friendship could blossom. In this time, one would remain in servitude to the other.

  “Massa, here be some of that bumbo you sent.”

  Grey turned and accepted the mug from a young girl. “Thank you, Lydia.”

  He tasted the drink then passed the wooden mug to Rachel. “Shall we drink to the happiness of the newly wed couple?”

  She tasted the drink. Sweetened, spiced rum. “To Camisha and Ashanti,” she said, and they drank again.

  “It was a stirring ceremony.”

  “I don’t understand—there at the end, why was everyone upset?”

  “She tripped on the broom—a bad omen. It means that trouble lies between them in the future.”

  “So it’s just some silly superstition?”

  He almost smiled. “Young lady, you are speaking to a ship’s captain. Superstitions are not foolish.”

  She tried to understand, as she had all day long, what was in Camisha’s heart. She knew she had fallen in love with the proud Yankee freeman the first moment she heard her say his name. Now, she suspected she wanted to carry with her back to her time the memory of a love that defied time. Camisha held deep Christian principles, but she’d agreed to a marriage that held no legal significance.

  “Do you trust in God, Rachel?”

  She slowly turned and peered up at Grey. It was absolutely the last question she would ever have expected of him. “Yes.”

  “And do you believe He blesses the vows we just witnessed?”

  She saw the solemn expectation in his heavy-lidded gaze, as if he himself hadn’t quite made up his mind on it. “Yes. I do.”

  “Then I would ask you to share the same vows with me. Rachel, you must know I—”

  “Neither of them are married to another, Grey,” she said, astonished. Peculiar, that he might see the romance of a ceremony created by the lowly. But that he could suggest a similarity between the love Ashanti held for Camisha—the man literally risked his life to remain in Virginia—and the lust Grey felt for her cheapened the transcendent beauty they’d just witnessed. The boisterous laughter and joy suddenly bathed her in a profound loneliness, and she silently left him.

  Camisha had come to this time to find a man who cherished her more than the sweet breath of freedom, of life. Rachel found only memories of a family that was gone forever; and the instinct that she once had a mother and a father who had loved each other deeply made even more bitter the knowledge that her love for Grey Trelawney was utterly foolish.

  She had come to accept that Camisha had not traveled here to accompany her. She herself had traveled here to accompany Camisha. Their entire journey to the eighteenth century had not been for Rachel, but for Camisha.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  By the next morning, Rosalie was quiet once more, her guests returned to their homes. Only a single guest remained at the plantation, and that was her unwelcome mistress. That lady had now taken an interest in decorating the place, and her settling-in didn’t surprise Rachel. The woman was too hot-blooded to marry a man like Grey without enjoying him.

  Hastings had made himself scarce, for which Rachel didn’t blame him a bit. She missed his dry wit, but he and the lady—like most feeling human beings she was forced on—didn’t get along. This morning, he’d left for Norfolk.

  Rachel, Camisha, and Emily were enjoying the sunshine weeding the gardens behind the cabins when a young boy arrived, excitedly babbling. “Miss Sheppard, Miss Sheppard! You be wanted in town!”

  “In town? By whom?”

  “Lady named Jennie. She said you know why. She sent a footman over, an’ he be waitin’ to carry you there.”

  “The baby,” Rachel said, glancing at Camisha. “Can you watch Emily while I’m gone?”

  “You know I will. You just go on. We’ll be fine.”

  She quickly washed and changed, then set out in the carriage. An hour later, they pulled in front of the Trelawney home, and Rachel hurried up the walk to the front door, knocking.

  The servant opened the door and showed Rachel inside. As the girl closed the door behind her, she asked, “How is Mrs. Trelawney?”

  “She’s in her bedchamber,” the maid said. “She said for me to take you up, soon as you got here.”

  She followed the maid upstairs, fearful of what she might find. Inside the elegant bedroom, she saw Jennie sitting at the window, clutching the armrests of her rocker.

  When the maid opened the door wider, she turned. Her face was swollen from weeping, but she smiled.

  The maid closed the door, and Rachel crossed the room. “What’s wrong, Jennie?”

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, catching her hand in hers.

  “Has your labor begun?”

  “No. But it will soon—” She dabbed at her eyes.

  Rachel sat on the footstool beside her. She lay a reassuring hand on Jennie’s arm. “What happened?”

  “Oh, I’ve done something dreadful, and I know my child will pay the price.”

  “Tell me all about it.”

  The young woman clutched a handkerchief, and she twisted it in her hands. “I’ve visited a seer.”

  “Like a psychic?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know that word. A seer,” she repeated. “A woman who sees the future.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve had this overwhelming sense of doom recently, and I’m not sure why. Well, she told me why.”

  Rachel waited, watching the macabre parade of emotions across her face; fear, worry, and—strangely, for a woman who’d struck her as stubbornly optimistic—hopelessness.

  “She told me my child will die before his time.”

  Rachel exhaled in quiet rage. She stopped herself, though, not wishing to castigate Jennie for an act she’d no doubt been raised to see as heresy.

  “She said things—incredible things about me that no one could know. But how could she know?”

  “Who is she, anyway?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Then she gave Rachel a meaningful look. “One of Rosalie’s servants.”

  “Have you told Thomas?”

  “Good heavens, no.” She dabbed her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief. “He has no patience for superstitious things. He says only the ignorant African or Irish believe in them. I haven’t slept in days.”

  “What do you think has caused this anxiety? Perhaps you’re worried about something else, and it’s manifesting itself in concern for the baby?” She didn’t know how useful psychobabble from the twenty-first century might be, but she gave it a try.

  Jennie surprised her by abruptly becoming evasive. “I don’t know that anything caused it. Does it matter? I’m worried about my baby!”

  “Have you called the doctor? This worry can’t be good for you or the baby.”

  She snorted. “Oh, Dr. McKenzie will tell me to stop borrowing trouble.”

  “There is something to it being no more than superstition. Plain and simply, the future hasn’t taken place yet. Anything could happen.”

  “A seer doesn’t make events happen,” Jennie argued. “She simply knows they will occur.”

  Rachel fell silent. As she pondered, she noticed the portrait that stood on the opposite wall: Emily, no more than four years old. Ironic, she thought, that Thomas had denied Grey as his son, and yet now doted on Emily as his granddaughter—a child without a drop of Trelawney blood flowing in her veins. She turned to Jennie and tried again.

  “We cannot change forces of history that are driven my many people, like the explorers forging new nations abroad. The events of one life, however, I … yes, I do believe we can
change. Otherwise, there would be no hope in some lives. There would be no reason to live our lives with autonomy and purpose.”

  “The past is written, in other words,” Jennie said. “But my child’s future is not.”

  “Exactly.”

  Jennie sighed, comforted somewhat. “Thank you. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll lie down a while. Thank you so much for coming into town, Rachel. You’ve helped a great deal.”

  Rachel helped her into the bed, knowing her time was very near. “Where’s Thomas?”

  “In the capitol. Court’s still in session. I hear Grey’s wife is back.”

  “Yes. She had a big party last night.”

  Jennie nodded. “We received an invitation.”

  “I’m glad. Why didn’t you come?”

  “The invitation was hardly out of respect for his father. He merely wants to antagonize Thomas. I declined without mentioning it to him. The woman disgusts me, and I can’t watch how Grey treats him, while Thomas continues to try to bridge the gap. He says that perhaps it will help Grey come to terms with the mistakes Thomas has made and that, in time, it might help him win Grey’s forgiveness. And that he might perhaps feel more favorably about letting Thomas know Emily.”

  Rachel’s gaze rose to the portrait of the child, wondering how Thomas would feel if he knew the truth.

  “But what about you, Rachel? Will you stay at Rosalie?”

  Rachel met her gaze, seeing the kindness there. Yet the sight gave her an awkward discomfort; she didn’t need to know the situation Grey had suggested, so she merely smiled. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. It’s become quite uncomfortable with his wife there. She’s just not a very nice lady.”

  Jennie touched her hand. “Then will you consider—staying with us for a few days?”

  “Jennie—”

  “’Tis selfish of me, I know, to prevail upon your goodness for my frail cowardice. But it would be best for you, Rachel. People—not many, mind you, just one or two—whisper about your—” Clearing her throat, she whispered, “your purpose at Rosalie.”