“Oh, I have a job! A job,” he said, perhaps a bit proudly. “And do you know what I’m doing?”
“What?”
“Telling people about my life.” At her surprise, he nodded. “When the woman conducting the interview said, ‘Tell me about the kind of work you’ve done in the past,’ I, well, thought she meant the past. At any rate, when I told her, she thought I was play-acting. And a curious look came over her as I described my life. She had tears in her eyes by the time I told her about Camisha, and she told me I was hired.”
“Oh, Grey. Camisha’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“Yes—she was with me at Rosalie, and then we both went back in time, and I think when she came back … Max might have done something terrible to her. She knows his brother murdered my parents.”
“We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”
“Rachel!” A voice called down from the window above.
Emily—dressed in a pink satin gown and white apron, artlessly blowing a kiss at Rachel.
Her breath caught on a joyful cry. “Oh, Emily!”
She darted away from the window, and Rachel raised her eyes to Grey. A few moments later, Emily raced through the door, and she stumbled to meet her, catching the lively girl in her arms. “Oh, Rachel! I missed you so.”
“I missed you, too. And I have something that belongs to you.”
“Truly?”
She reached inside her collar and pulled the silver chain over her head. Emily gasped. “Oh, my locket! How wonderful!”
Rachel kissed her forehead, then straightened, reaching for Grey. “I never knew one person could be so happy.”
He held her gently. “Let’s go inside.”
Clara Trelawney, perhaps in her 70s, had merry brown eyes, round wire-rimmed glasses, and snowy-white hair worn up, with a complexion like soft rising dough. Her cheeks held a merry flush. “I’ve just made tea.”
Emily served, and for a few minutes they chatted about inconsequentials as they sipped their tea.
Clara leaned forward and touched the child’s shoulders. “Emily, why don’t you run and play with the doll collection in the bedroom for just a few minutes?”
As soon as she was gone, Clara said, “Rachel, I have some difficult news for you. I didn’t want the child to hear.”
Her cup clattered against her saucer. “What’s wrong? Is it Camisha?”
“Well, I received a call from a Doctor Rayburn just before you arrived. It seems your father went to the Williamsburg Inn and made quite a scene, looking for a friend of yours.”
“That’s Camisha!”
“Yes. At any rate, when they told him they had no knowledge of her whereabouts, he grew quite violent. It took three police officers to subdue him. He’s under psychiatric observation at the hospital now, and he will be until they can do an evaluation on him. Or make sense of his wild accusations—which could take a dreadfully long time, I’m afraid. Rachel, he’s quite taken leave of his senses.”
She stared into her teacup. If he honestly didn’t know what happened to Camisha … Then who did?
“Papa! Rachel! Quick, come see!”
Emily’s cry interrupted her gloom, and they all rose, walking through to the back of the house. Outside the sitting room where Rachel and Jennie had once shared so much, they saw the garden still colorful with a riot of blossoming flowers.
But Emily’s gaze was fastened on a portrait that hung near the door. She glanced over her shoulder at them, then pointed at the portrait. “Look!”
It was a portrait of four men in a tavern, mugs cluttering their table.
“Yes, that’s Thomas Jefferson,” Rachel said. “And that’s Patrick Henry.”
“That’s the Apollo Room at the Raleigh,” Clara said.
But how did Emily know who Thomas Jefferson was?
It was the same portrait she and Camisha had seen at the tavern when they first arrived, so long ago. They’d taken a selfie with the portrait. What had changed to have put the portrait here rather than the Raleigh, where the interpreter had claimed Thomas Jefferson had given it as a gift?
Rachel grabbed her camera out of her pocket and pulled up the photo. Camisha smiled brightly on one side of the photo, and she missed her all over again.
But it was different now. All the men in the selfie portrait were white. Rachel looked closer at the portrait on the wall.
“Look!” Emily insisted. “It’s Cammie’s husband. Mr. Adams.”
The man leaned close to another man his own age, as if whispering a joke; they were the only two without wigs. The other man, a blond, smiled broadly. Rachel saw the uncanny likeness between Ashanti and this man.
“But it couldn’t be. Ashanti would’ve been close to sixty. This portrait was done around … oh, I forget when. The interpreter called it the prelude to independence.”
“Then it was between May and July of 1776,” said Clara.
Rachel looked again at the photograph on her phone. The smiling blond man was the same. The young black man was not.
Clara said, “The young African-American man was a friend of … well, a friend of your brother’s, Grey. And the fourth man at the table, the blond, is Bronson himself.”
All four seemed well into a keg of ale. The whole portrait painted entirely too merry an image of Jefferson to have ever earned its way into the history books.
“Rachel,” Grey said with a grim quiet, “look at the woman, there in the background. The servant woman. Do you see her?”
“Oh, no.” Rachel cried out, stricken.
A white dust cap covered the woman’s head, and her face was wreathed in a serene smile as she watched the men at the table. Despite her age, she held a timeless beauty, and Rachel’s throat ached with the sudden heaviness of sorrow. No simple servant woman would watch this young man with such fondness. She was his mother. And she was Rachel’s dearest friend.
The past makes us who we are, Rachel. But we make the future what it is.
“Did you know her?” Clara asked.
To live in the past requires a deep respect for it.
Tears spilled from Rachel’s eyes.
“Excuse us, Clara,” Grey said quietly.
When Clara ushered Emily out, Grey took Rachel in his arms. He stroked her hair silently, absorbing her grief.
“She stayed there,” Rachel said. “Camisha stayed there, to try to make things better. That’s—that’s why she was so upset that last time I saw her. She knew we’d never see each other again.”
“Would you have expected anything different from her?”
She shook her head. “No. She stayed with the man she loved.”
“And I suspect Adams was originally destined to influence history—hence their remaining in that time.”
“But I’ll never…I’ll never see her again.”
He held her close until, at last, she said, “We need to go visit Helen. Camisha’s mother.”
“Yes. I’d very much like to know her. To thank her.”
She touched the portrait, then impulsively lifted it off the wall, staring in wonder at Camisha. What had those dark eyes seen over the course of her life?
As she replaced the portrait on the wall, her fingers brushed against something on the back. She turned it over.
A leather portfolio was attached to the frame. Painted in large, neat lettering, was a series of numbers: 18.1.3.8.5.12.
Rachel. It was her name, written in the childhood alphabet code. She had so many memories of this woman—but the summer they’d been separated, forced to hide their friendship, was among the dearest.
Her hands were shaking as she carefully removed the leather from the back of the frame.
“What are you doing?” Grey asked.
A flap was tucked into the portfolio on the side that had been facing the frame, and she carefully opened it, looking inside. Two letters had been tucked inside the leather pouch. One was labeled “Mom.” The other, “Rachel.” She withdrew her letter.
>
On the outside of the old envelope, faded with age, her name was written—in Camisha’s handwriting.
“Oh, Grey.” Her fingertips trembled over the old paper. “It looks like the letter is folded to make its own envelope. Will you …? I’m afraid I’ll tear it.”
He unfolded the letter and gave it to her, and her heart beat hard as she left the house for the sanctuary of the gardens. Although Camisha had protected it well within the leather pouch, the paper was ancient and fragile, and the wax seal crumbled with her faintest touch. She unfolded and began reading aloud. The letter was dated April of 1776—nearly thirty years after they’d last seen each other.
“My dearest Rachel,
“I miss you more than you could ever guess. In my old life the word sister meant many things—but in every sense that mattered, you were my only sister, and I will always mourn losing you.
“Since I know you’re probably pretty steamed, I have to say Malcolm wouldn’t let me tell you what was happening, that last day we were together. If I did, he said, you’d refuse to leave me, and you would never get back to the twenty-first century. And matters at Rosalie were such that Grey couldn’t stay in the eighteenth. You would’ve been destroyed, had you lost his love. I know that. It had to be this way, and I hope you’ll understand.
“Ashanti and I have four children, two boys and two girls. My firstborn, I named Rashall, after you. He’s courageous and more than a bit reckless, and when we visited Williamsburg once—he was only ten—he met Grey’s brother. The boys became fast friends, despite their differences and Thomas’s overprotectiveness. Tell Grey that what Thomas neglected with him, he’s more than made up for in Bronson’s life.
“Would you believe that Rashall’s a privateer? I’m proud to say that he and Bronson are the terror of every respectable British ship in the northeast. Rumors of legitimate privateering, legalized piracy, for all practical purposes—abound, and I know it’s inevitable. War looms on the horizon.
“Beyond this, I fear I must remain vague. Yes, I have seen a great deal in my life, which continues to be the sort of adventure I dreamed about as a child. But the adventures of a child’s imagination don’t include the heartbreak and I’ve seen my share of that as well. When one reads about the Boston Massacre in a history book, it is merely a tedious number to remember for a test. When one has known a child slain there, it is real, it is your life. I am put in the unpleasant position of knowing tragedies will occur before they do—and my memory of American history is unfortunately excellent. So as the first shots of the American revolution were fired at Lexington and Concord, what was I supposed to do? Did I warn my husband to avoid Lexington? Did the urge live within me to tell the housewives of Concord to hug their boys hard when they left in the morning with nothing to protect themselves except a brave heart? Of course not. They do as mothers always will, and boys die fighting rich men’s wars as ever they will. I can only trust that God will watch over my boys, and give me courage to match theirs.
“The land—so unspoiled! Each time I miss a convenience of my old life, I walk for a mile or two and see an earth that by your time will no longer exist. For that, my dear Rachel, you have my pity.
“My mother will be worried about me, so I ask you to visit her right away. I have attached a letter for her, but please be sure she’s prepared to read it before you give it to her. Perhaps together you and Grey can explain it to her. Please give her the portrait, and let her know how happy I am. I believe she’ll be happy for me.
“Rachel, I have been in correspondence with many at Rosalie including Godfrey Hastings, who began recording the lives of those men and women and children who were freed by the fire that destroyed Rosalie. As time passed, he recorded more details and eventually he passed the book on to Daniel for posterity. When Hastings came back to Rosalie that night and found the destruction, he was forced to take shelter in the overseer’s house—no doubt after fumigating the place. I believe that you will be able to find this book, perhaps with the help of your sisters. And when you do, I am sure Grey will be comforted to know that his actions were not without good effect. Ruth, Daniel, little Dan, Sukey—these people and all their friends, at least, in the end, they had a chance at a life of freedom, a life lived according to their own dreams and desires.
“I wanted to find a way to tell you that I will always love you, and will ever hold our time together as the dearest time in my life. I find a bit of grim irony in the fact that I believe, despite all odds, this letter will ultimately reach you. But in the logical progression of time, you cannot find me, and that saddens me deeply.
“Then again, have our lives ever been exactly logical since we first met old Malcolm and Mary? Is plain old life in the twenty-first century, for that matter, very logical? (Though I have to admit, there are days I miss the telephone very much, as well as central heating and definitely plumbing.) Perhaps we shall meet again. Perhaps … well, life is uncertain, Rachel. I have been blessed for nearly sixty years. I was blessed to know your love for the first half of that. If things don’t work out for us to see one another in this life, I hope for that day when we’re all back together in Glory (Rev 21:4). All my love to you, my dearest friend.
“Camisha.”
Rachel hastily dabbed her cheeks, and when she looked up, Grey was watching her with a quiet tenderness. “Revelation 21:4,” she mused. “Happen to have a Bible handy?”
“‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.’ That verse is near the very end. My mother taught it to me for comfort.”
She remembered Ruth preparing Camisha for her wedding, dressing her with a cherished family heirloom—a simple scarf headdress her mother happened to have been wearing when she was taken from her home and sent thousands of miles away, to a strange land.
My mama wore this in her hair when she was taken from the motherland. She say it stands for the day we all be back together with our loved ones in Glory, when He wipe every tear from our eyes, and there be no more mourning, no more crying, no more pain.
“Camisha was happy. She found exactly what she was looking for.”
He nodded, joining her on the ornamental iron loveseat, idly stroking her hair. “And you, darling?”
“I found much more. I’m so glad she was clever and thoughtful enough to find a way to let me know.” She raised her gaze to his. “But I’m so sorry about your father, Grey. You’d just made your peace with him.”
“Exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
She moved away enough to watch him; it was simple to see the sadness of the loss was still fresh with him. So much bitterness and foolishness, so much forgiveness and reconciliation—all lost.
He spoke quietly. “It was the only bit of unfinished business keeping us at Rosalie. I would have loved to have known him longer, known him better, but these are the consequences of life’s choices. Just as I would love to have carried out my plans to heal the lives of people I left injured with my deeds. But it’s ‘the tender leaves of hope’ that matter—not the killing frost. In Bronson, Jennie left him hope. In my escape from Rosalie—my presumed death—all of the men and women and children were granted the hope of freedom they should never have been denied to begin with. Staging my death was the only way to grant their release sooner than later. Had I never known you and Camisha, I would’ve in fact died in the fire, and the men and women I held would have been transferred to my father. Fortunately, due to Hastings’ shrewd management of the estate, they would have been given an inheritance and the freedom to stay on as paid employees. And for that, a richness of grace of which I am undeserving, I am ever grateful.”
“What do you think about this book she mentions?”
A smile came to his lips. “Can’t you guess? I think we need to find it. If only it weren’t so difficult to locate people.”
She laughed and reache
d for her cell phone. “My sweet, naïve darling. Let me introduce you to a world of information and cat videos.” Then, looking up at the perplexity in his beloved eighteenth century innocence, she put the device away. “Next time I’ll tell you.”
His eyes warmed on her. “Next time?”
“This time, I fear I’m distracted.”
And she inhaled the sweetness of the day before them, with the ever familiar scents of home.
Home.
With life’s promise ahead, her dear memories of her family restored to her. With the man she loved in her arms. With the sudden laughter of their daughter as she skipped out the door to the gardens to greet them.
She laughed as Emily ran to them, and she took her onto her lap. “Aunt Clara has apple butter to go with our dinner,” Emily said with solemn excitement.
Rachel kissed Emily’s temple, thankful for the happiness that filled her heart. She felt Grey’s hand at the nape of her neck, lightly stroking. “Apple butter and pretty ladies,” he said, smiling. “Yes, my darling. We are blessed indeed.”
Note from the Author
Those familiar with the historic figure of William Byrd II of Westover will point out that—along with being one of the most genteel, witty, and accomplished men in history—he in fact passed away in 1744. Please don’t let his presence in this book set in 1746 alarm you. While the author fights anachronisms, it was impossible to exclude one of the greatest wits of the colonial tidewater from this story about that time and place. It is her belief that he would’ve enjoyed sticking around to play a round or two of I Come from the Twenty-First Century.
Anne Meredith is a native Texan and the author of Love’s Timeless Hope, Love Across Time, and Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg, Book One). Contact her via Twitter @_AnneMeredith or on Goodreads. Reviews of this book are always welcome on Amazon.com and Goodreads.
For more information: www.amazon.com/author/annemeredith
Look for the high-seas adventures of Bronson Trelawney and Rashall Adams in IMMORTAL (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg, Book Two)
Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1) Page 36