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

by Anne Meredith

  Rachel was despondent. Nothing—except two and a half centuries.

  “Well, here we are.”

  Noticing the news vans parked near the steps of the Capitol, she felt fainthearted. She who had spent her life before the camera now loathed the prospect of facing those probing lenses. The last time she’d been here, Grey had been at her side, and she was triumphant in the knowledge that the future was theirs.

  “I can’t—”

  Mary took her hand. “You must, child. Remember what he gave up for you, so at least one part of the world—that which he had touched—would be better. Had you never gone back, imagine how much worse the world might be.”

  She gazed at the peculiar old couple. Malcolm with his ill-fitting glasses, tricorn hat, and old brown waistcoat and trousers. Mary with her silver-white hair, kind, blue eyes, and frilly, cornflower blue gown. “Aren’t you coming in with me?”

  Malcolm smiled. “You’ve no longer any need of us, dear. And the fact is, we have work to do. And so do you.”

  “Work?” she repeated miserably, turning away. For several long seconds, she thought how empty and pointless the rest of her life would be. “Trying to destroy the place that’s come to mean everything to me?”

  She looked up, only to discover she was alone. Malcolm and Mary were both gone. She hesitated in the archway of the Capitol. And suddenly, her anxiety over Camisha began to ease. Something deep within her told her she was all right. Rachel knew it beyond doubt.

  You must be there for the conference. Surely, after all you’ve learned, you understand that.

  The morning was bright and clear, and she could see the faint silhouette of William & Mary at the other end of Duke of Gloucester Street. The spire of Bruton Parish Church, in the distance, rose heavenward.

  In 1926 the rector of that church, Dr. Goodwin, persuaded John D. Rockefeller Jr. to save Williamsburg. If Dr. Goodwin hadn’t found a benefactor in Mr. Rockefeller, Williamsburg would’ve been lost in the mists of time, existing only as a dusty college town with asphalt running over its archeological riches.

  Her heart swelled with a passionate, somber awareness. This town was the one bit of Grey Trelawney that was left in her world; she saw him in each elegantly costumed interpreter, heard him in each archaic greeting. In it lived—as nowhere else in the world—the foundation of a freedom that would guide the rest of the world. Since her childhood she’d loved this place, a place to which her father had introduced her when she was too young to appreciate it or even understand it. A place that charged her with such tumultuous emotions that she’d carefully kept the memory of it locked away.

  A place, she knew now, she was meant to protect. Not destroy.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Rachel blinked away tears and opened the door. Someone was speaking in the room where the House of Burgesses had once met.

  “Miss Sheppard?” She didn’t know the middle-aged businessman smiling at her. “I’m Walter Stafford. I’m with the foundation. We were concerned to hear of your accident at Rosalie.”

  She shook his hand, and before she could speak, he went on. “Please, go ahead and join your group at the main table. The gentleman speaking now is John Smith, the president of Colonial Williamsburg. He’s fielding questions from the media.”

  “Thank you.”

  She’d had no plans to speak here; she certainly wasn’t inclined to further Kingsley’s cause. She spotted Roger McNamara, the president of Kingsley Entertainment, at the table, and she started toward him to give her resignation without delay.

  The man at the podium stopped speaking. “Miss Sheppard?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I recognized you from your press package.” He had a kind face, and eyes that twinkled when he smiled. “Some of you may be aware that Miss Sheppard, Kingsley’s public relations director, had an unfortunate accident at Rosalie plantation.”

  He touched his chin, then he went on. “Now, Miss Sheppard, I know that in the tidewater area, Kingsley has its share of detractors. But—” He laughed. “I want to make it clear that I had nothing to do with your accident.”

  Soft chuckles went through the crowd at the dad joke. She joined in their laughter and met him halfway to the podium, where he enthusiastically shook her head. “I’m very glad to know you’re feeling better.”

  His sincerity startled her—he treated her as if she were a generous benefactor, rather than the enemy. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He lifted a hand toward the podium, then stepped away. She hesitated, and the crowd quietened as she stepped up to the microphone. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. But I hadn’t planned to participate today. I’m sure Mr. McNamara would be happy to answer any questions you have.”

  “Miss Sheppard,” a voice in the crowd said, “I have a question only you can answer.”

  She glanced toward McNamara, who gave a nod. There was just no getting out of it. “Yes?”

  “I understand that only this morning you left Williamsburg Medical Center after claiming to have traveled back in time. To Williamsburg in the year 1746.”

  McNamara’s eyes seemed to say, What the hell?

  “Yes, I hear you met with Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin,” another reporter said. “Miss Sheppard, does Kingsley overwork their staff to the point of mental exhaustion?”

  Chuckles moved through the crowd. The first man rejoined, “My sources say you met Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson. Will Kingsley be so indiscriminate with anachronisms in Americana?”

  Her face burned as the crowd tittered, and she understood at last. Since she’d returned to her time, she’d told only one person the truth. And as her gaze roved over the crowd, it settled on that familiar face. There he sat, in the third row, smiling complacently. Max Sheppard. He’d planted the time travel to destroy her credibility. The local media were having a heyday with it, and they refused to get past it.

  “Is it all a publicity gimmick?” the reporter pressed. “Did you plant this nonsense to drum up a story about Kingsley’s genuine interest in history?”

  Her gut instinct—the one Max Sheppard had instilled in her—recognized the escape that reporter had offered her; with another ten words, she could turn this crowd around.

  All at once, she was overwhelmed by a memory she couldn’t escape, no matter how she tried. It would be with her the rest of her life. The memory of a little girl, waving at her from a window, as she had once waved at her father on the darkest night of his life. A little girl who had stolen into Rachel’s heart in a moment and trusted her to help her find something she’d lost, to restore to her a life that was destined to be snuffed out on a stormy night. A little girl who loved flowers and sewing and apple butter—and her father—and who cherished the mother she’d finally been given. And in the end, Rachel had been powerless to save her life.

  And the memory of Camisha, fighting for Rachel when the fight nearly cost her her life. Now, Rachel feared what Max might have done to retaliate. Her breath caught on a sob, and she gasped against the pain. Dear God, this was a nightmare. Never had such a heaviness pressed against her heart, as if it were the very hand of God. “I—I’m sorry…” she began.

  Tell them the truth.

  And promptly join Jack Sheppard in his cell.

  “Miss Sheppard.” This from a different voice, near the back of the room. A deep, rich voice with the lyrical undertones of old Europe and a little tidewater Virginia. She should be locked away, to hear him even now. And then she saw him, moving through the crowd with patient, stubborn progress. Rachel stared, stricken, at the colonial vision that appeared.

  It was Grey.

  It was Grey, watching her with a resolute tenderness, with as tender faith. Swift, disbelieving joy rose up within her, and tears stung her eyes as he walked forward.

  You cannot give divine knowledge to a man … Had you both remained, it’s impossible to tell what might have happened.

  “If such a thing could happen—” Grey s
aid softly, his gaze supporting her when she thought her knees would surely buckle, “and of course we all understand it never could—what do you expect we might learn from that time?”

  Dear God, she thought. If I’m dreaming, let me never wake up.

  Ten feet from her he stopped and waited, a smile of steadfast faith wreathing his face, and he gave a slight nod of encouragement. As she wiped her eyes, her gaze flickered away from his and fell on the press badge of a woman in the front row. Washington Post, it said.

  Sudden awareness swept her; never again would she have such an opportunity. When she spoke, her voice trembled.

  “The man who taught me everything I know about PR work has a favorite saying that few of you are aware of. The world is all truth versus beauty, he says, and no one cares about the truth. We buy the beauty.”

  A few chuckles crossed the room. She caught the eye of a man in the second row beside an old woman, and she remembered him as the stern-frock-coated minister-type who’d greeted her that first day with a protest sign. And that distrustful minister became her audience.

  “That has been my creed,” she went on. “It is indeed a lovely thought, that families would visit a Kingsley park and receive an understanding of American history between the roller coaster and the laser light show. Fireworks present dramatic entertainment; a Boston Tea Party ride makes for rollicking fun.

  “But how does one glamorize a slave auction? Has the ride yet been invented that can explain a bunch of ragtag farmers fighting for freedom against the greatest military strength in the world? Amid our bells and whistles, how do we depict the silent drum of a fallen drummer boy?”

  She glanced from McNamara, whose face had paled in disbelief, to the minister; the old man’s blue eyes were lit with suspicion. Just another trick, he seemed to think. He was a tough nut to crack.

  “The colonial era has been called the age of enlightenment and the age of reason. Yet American slavery was born in that period. Three hundred years later, are we any wiser than the ancestors we condemn? Men are still driven by greed; others, still enslaved by poverty. John D. Rockefeller had a creed for Colonial Williamsburg. That the future might learn from the past. I hope my former colleagues will do that.”

  The room was hushed with expectancy.

  “To answer the question of the first reporter: Yes, I traveled back in time. If you would take my hand now, you, too, can walk out that door and into the past. We can learn of a time when brave men and women from foreign shores formed a new country. Some came to find adventure—or the freedom to worship as they chose. Some were forced to come against their will, and found a harsh existence. But they all played a vital role in the drama of what would become our great country.”

  The memory of Camisha staring wistfully at the Wythe house that first day returned to her, and a pang went through her. That doesn’t make my ancestors any less important a part of it than those fine families.

  She swallowed hard. “None of these accomplishments must be forgotten. Our nation’s history is a many-colored quilt—some threads are brighter, some darker, but all are a part of who we are. Such a complex tale cannot be told except in the context of the time. To propose that anyone could find entertaining those most tragic, noble elements of that drama is the epitome of presumption.”

  Even the Washington Post reporter was agog; she’d stopped scribbling soundbites, and Rachel hoped she had the recorder running. But not everyone in the crowd approved of her speech, and she noticed Max rise and leave suddenly. She forced herself to refocus her thoughts, and went on, looking back at the old minister.

  “In only one place in the world, time-travel isn’t an impossibility. It’s a promise. In Colonial Williamsburg, you walk the streets George Washington walked—not only as the first commander-in-chief, but as a boy visiting the capital, dreaming of going to sea. You can sleep in a room where Thomas Jefferson slept when he studied law here. You can sit in this chamber, where the last royal governor of Virginia ruled, where the King’s whim was law, and where Patrick Henry denounced that law as tyranny.

  “Bring a young boy here and let him be inspired with vision, as Washington was. Bring the boy’s sister, and she will learn firsthand that she has opportunities that girls in colonial days didn’t. Bring children here, and their imagination and their love for country comes to life. Put them on a roller coaster, ladies and gentlemen, and that imagination is put on hiatus.”

  The minister’s face had softened; clearly he knew he was responsible for her change of heart.

  “Before coming here, I had no more interest in history than a boy on his way to a theme park. In this historic village, the great drama of our heritage still lives. That,” she said, her voice falling to a whisper, “is a miracle.”

  The woman who sat beside the minister dabbed at her eyes, and Rachel understood at last the depth of their love for this place.

  Roger McNamara, however, was no longer watching her. He was staring at the floor, lost in thought, and her heart leapt with hope. Either he was reconsidering, or he was contemplating suing her.

  “I bear no ill will toward my former colleagues. Before I came here, I was driven by the same motivation that drives them. But today I ask each of them where their true interest lies. Is it in educating the minds of tomorrow? The legacy of Americana is not a legacy of love; it is not a legacy of vision. It is a legacy of greed.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have learned history’s painful lesson of what happens when greed and gain are more important than conscience and consequence in the lives of our children.

  “Today I ask Kingsley to set aside the beauty and examine the truth. The best that can come of this project is offending the many Kingsley patrons who recognize the worth of our nation’s history, in all its flawed glory. The worst that can come is the destruction of that history. History is presented best by those who have dedicated their lives to it. And I urge each of you to fight anyone who would dare threaten that dedication. Thank you.”

  The room was quiet for only a moment before a thunderclap of applause rang out through the crowd. And the first to stand was the stern old man in a frock coat. The crowd came to its feet, the preservationists who had come to denounce Kingsley and the journalists whose hands shot eagerly into the air. But Rachel noticed none of them.

  Grey arrived at the lectern, and a faint smile quirked the corners of his lips. But in his eyes, she saw his elation. He reached for her hand, and the room fell silent as she placed her hand in his, then stepped down from the podium. He watched her with silent pride. Too courtly a colonial gentleman to do otherwise, he reined in his gut instinct, which was to place a resounding kiss on her deliriously smiling mouth.

  He smiled as he hastily led her out of the room and into a hallway, where he pulled her into his arms. Her fingers slid over his face in wonder, absorbing the warmth of him, the reality of him. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she held him, as he slowly lowered his mouth to hers.

  “Miss Sheppard, can you explain—”

  “Does this mean you’ll—”

  Grey raised his head impatiently. “I humbly beg your pardon, kind sir, but can you not see a gentleman busy kissing a lady?”

  With that, he returned to the business at hand.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  As Rachel and Grey turned to leave the Capitol, she heard a voice. “Miss Sheppard—”

  “Did I not say—” Grey stopped abruptly. “Oh. Mr. Smith.”

  “I had no idea you knew Miss Sheppard,” he said, smiling. “But it seems obvious you do.”

  She smiled. “Mr. Smith. I’d like to help you fight Kingsley, should they be foolish enough to proceed. I’m rather certain I’ll have some time on my hands.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m looking for a Marketing Director, so if you’re interested in that, call my office and make an appointment. In the meantime, I have the pleasure of telling you that Roger McNamara has just announced their decision to withdraw plans for the project.”


  Rachel laughed. “Really?”

  “The press is in a lather. The Post plans to run excerpts of your speech online. It simply held too much truth for Kingsley’s comfort. Surely they’ve been considering just such a move for some time. This story was just enough to push them over the edge.”

  Later, walking down Duke of Gloucester Street, Grey pulled her close to him, and she smiled. They stopped near the home where his father had once lived. “But how did it all happen?” she asked.

  “Malcolm told me that night at Rosalie what was to happen—that I could live out the rest of my life with you, but only if I turned my back on my old life.”

  “You knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “There wasn’t time. He told me just before the fire. Of course, at the time I didn’t know that the fire would explain my disappearance. I was terrified. When we entered the house, I could see nothing, and the smoke was suffocating. And then, a thunderous crash. And I don’t remember anything until we awakened in Lottie Chesterfield’s home. She recognized your name, and said you were to appear at a conference of some sort the next day. Apparently, we arrived here the same morning you did, and Mrs. Chesterfield had a servant bring us to Clara’s. Malcolm was waiting for us there, and he told me you were to arrive soon, but that I couldn’t see you until after the storm.”

  “Grey, the first night I was at Rosalie, I saw Emily—just as I saw her the night Rosalie burned. I thought she was a ghost … but she couldn’t have been, could she?”

  “She’s very much alive. I believe the bond between you and Emily was just too strong. It was that kinship that conjured her spirit, leading you back in time to me, just as she would lead me forward in time to find you.”

  “But early that morning at Clara’s, it was really her.”

  “It’s her, indeed. She thinks we’re on a fabulous journey. And I suspect we are.”

  She smiled. “What do you think about this time?”