by Maddie James
All right, Claire. Just do it.
She stared at the fireplace. The thing took up nearly the entire back wall of the cabin.
Bake bread indeed.
Not once in her life had she baked bread. When was there time? And who in their right mind would want to, anyway?
The thing was though, that if she were living in her own century, she'd probably have a pretty good idea of what she was supposed to do. She'd find a cookbook, go to the grocery store, call Vicki...
Claire snapped her fingers and glanced around the room. Cookbook. Any self-respecting 18th century woman worth her salt probably had a cookbook—or some semblance of one anyway.
Okay, so where would Hannah keep it?
Slowly turning on her heel, she glanced from one piece of furniture to another. Up until now, she'd not dared to explore the contents of the cabin—she'd really never felt up to doing so. And now she was supposed to bake bread. But she needed a recipe. So, she'd have to snoop ... or rather, search for one, right?
Right.
There was a small cabinet next to the fireplace and she suspected that that would be the most obvious place to look. She peeked inside. What was she doing? What if she found out something she didn't like? What if she found out Jack was a murderer or something? Murdered ol’ Hannah in her sleep!
She chuckled. Jack was no murderer. Just a man. An incredibly sexy, gorgeous man, who was perhaps just a tad chauvinistic, but not beyond the realm of what was expected in this day and age. She cared for him, and he expected bread, did he say in the morning? Well, surely to goodness it wouldn't take twenty-four hours. Why, if he wanted bread, that's what he would get. And he would get it tonight. Obviously the makings were around here somewhere, and if he expected it, she would just have to look around for it, wouldn't she?
Yes, she would.
Triumphant, Claire grasped the cabinet handle and pulled open the door, sniffed appreciatively at the aromas wafting out. She reached for the tiny wooden boxes inside. Spices. Honest to goodness spices! But upon closer inspection, she realized that the containers were nearly empty; only their fragrances lingered behind. Then another container caught her eye. Some type of decanter.
She lifted it then removed its lid. A quick whiff and her head tossed backward. The pungent fumes penetrated her nostrils.
Rum. Very strong rum.
She returned it to the shelf and closed the door. Well, she thought, unless she was making rum cake, she'd better get busy on the other ingredients and find a recipe. Otherwise, she might be tempted to forego the bread and indulge in the rum, forgetting this entire scenario all together.
Panning the room, her gaze fell on the chest against the far wall. As if drawn to it, she walked across the room and stood before the massive box. She felt compelled to search through it—almost like it was the thing she was supposed to do. She remembered Jack opening it once before, when he had retrieved Hannah's clothing. She had a brief moment's hesitation before she opened the lid.
Did she dare look? But if the trunk contained Hannah's things, then perhaps there would be recipes. And perhaps she would find out a little more about Hannah herself. It was strange, but since her arrival in the eighteenth century, there were things which seemed familiar, but about which she could know nothing. And now, as she stood before this carved, heavy chest, it felt like she'd done so a thousand times before.
Reaching out, she stroked the soft, polished wood, worn by the fingertips of time. A tingling sensation traveled up her hands to her arms and shoulders, then settled deep in her abdomen. Claire knelt before the chest and took a deep breath before placing her hands on the wooden lid. Slowly, she pushed the lid back until it sat on its hinges, leaning against the cabin wall.
At first she was hesitant to look inside. In fact, she sat on her haunches and closed her eyes, almost fearful of interfering with the possessions of a woman long gone. But after she sat there for a few minutes, she gathered enough courage to peek over the edge. When she did, she let out a long sigh, not realizing she'd been holding her breath, and then reached over to touch the first objects her eyes rested upon.
There were several articles of clothing similar to the ones she now wore. Another corset, two chemises, two skirts, the pantaloon type things, three bonnets and two aprons. After lifting these items one by one and carefully placing them on the floor, she again peered into the chest. There was a pair of shoes—a low boot type of shoe with a buckle across the top. The leather was very stiff, and she thought, quite uncomfortable looking. She'd just as soon go barefoot. And along with the shoes were two pair of thick stockings. Neither of these items looked as though they'd had much wear, so she assumed Hannah didn't wear them often either.
Rising onto her knees so she could reach further into the chest, she lifted out several other items and placed them one by one on the floor beside her: a small wooden box tied with a leather strap, a leather-bound book that she suspected to be a journal, and a large Bible.
Picking up the wooden box, she turned and sat against the chest, placing the box in her lap. Carefully, she released the leather tie and lifted off the lid. It was an ornately carved little box, and when the lid was removed, she immediately smelled the cedar from which it was made. Inside, there was a pincushion with several pins and two threaded needles, several loops of thread, two skeins of floss, some folded panels of white cotton, a thimble, a blue ribbon, and deep in the bottom, several letters wrapped with a dull red ribbon. Shoving the other items out of the way, she hesitantly picked up the bundle of letters. As if interfering in something she should not, she simply held them in her hands and looked at the script running across the envelopes. Miss Hannah Amalie Bell. She sensed that the letters were from Jack. Somehow, she knew it.
She held the bundle in her hands. She had no right—no right whatsoever—to read these. No right at all to pry into the past life of the man with whom she was now thrust into an existence.
Nor that of his former lover.
Claire dropped the bundle into her lap, closed her eyes and leaned her head against the chest. She wouldn't do it. It was none of her business. But then another voice broke into her thoughts. If you read them, you will know more about Jack, what he is like, what pleases him, what kind of a man he is. You know nothing about him, Claire.
You are living with a man about whom you know nothing.
Glancing back down into her lap, she seized the letters and stared at them. Turning them sideways, she thumbed her fingers along the edges, counting each one. Seven. Eight. Nine.
Nine letters in all.
Were these courting letters?
Had Jack met her on the mainland and then pined for her when he was back on the island? Did he find it unbearable to be without her?
Maybe I need to read them.
And then, maybe I don't.
She carefully laid the bundle in the chest deciding that now was not the right time to invade Jack and Hannah's private world.
She picked up the journal. A niggling of the same feelings swept over her, but she swiftly abandoned them. Letters were personal. This was not so much. Not that a journal wasn't personal, it was, but she found it much easier to read the woman's thoughts than to read a lover's words written to be shared by only one. And she couldn't do that to Jack. But Hannah wasn't here anymore, so reading her journal wasn't nearly as sinful as reading her love letters.
She guessed.
She leafed through the pages. All sorts of things were recorded within the journal. Not only personal entries about the comings and goings and the social lifestyles in Bath Town, but little tidbits like how to make soap and candles, and several recipes. Recipes!
But her interest in baking was long gone now.
As she leafed through the book, she finally came upon the point when Jack Porter had entered Hannah Bell's life. Claire read the entire section, learning only that Hannah had thought Jack the most handsome man she'd ever seen. So mannerly and gentleman-like, she wrote. He came whenever the me
rchant ships hit Bath Town, or when he could catch a ship crossing the inlet that required a pilot. He came calling whenever he could, although her parents did not necessarily approve. But soon Hannah had confessed her love for Jack, within the pages of her journal at least, if not to him then, and later agreed to be his wife.
There was one journal entry concerning an argument Jack had had with her father, who had insisted they reside in Bath Town. Jack insisted he must stay on the island. Hannah only wanted to live with Jack, be his wife, bear his children, and it mattered not where they resided. Finally, Hannah wrote that her father gave in, she married Jack, and he moved her to his island home.
She turned one more page to find it empty save for a few words.
The page was dated in August of 1717, a little over a year earlier, two months after she and Jack were married. The letters stood out against the white journal pages.
I want to go home.
Then for the remaining pages, there was nothing. A chill traveled up Claire's spine as she finally leafed back to the last words. Why would a woman who made an effort to write her thoughts in this book so frequently suddenly stop? And what was the meaning of those last words?
She would never know. She could argue the point internally all day long, but the end result would be the same. She simply would never know. All Claire could do was guess, and the most obvious guess was that Hannah was not as happy as Jack let on. Perhaps Hannah was lonely, too. Did Jack know?
She closed the book and laid it along side the spectacles, the wooden box and the bundles of letters in the trunk. The last item was the Bible. She sighed.
Enough snooping for one day.
But as she held the large Bible in her hands, she found herself drawn to it. Settling back down to a seated position on the floor, she laid it on her lap and carefully fingered the carved backing of the book.
Upon turning the page, she realized just how delicate and special the Bible was. Reverently, she turned several of the pages starting about two-thirds of the way back. When the pages fanned out to the center, stiffer pages stopped the motion and the Bible lay open in front of her. A family Bible. Complete with the family lineage.
Tracing a gentle finger over the names carefully written there, she leaned forward, almost squinting, to see the names. The dates of births and deaths and marriages spanned over a hundred years. Claire skimmed the names with her finger, tracing down the lineage until she reached Hannah and Jack's entry. And there it was, in black and parchment white, staring back up at her. Hannah Amalie Bell married to Jackson Miller Porter, 15 June, 1717.
For Eternity.
She gasped. The same inscription as in her ring. For Eternity.
What the hell was that supposed to mean? That this was fate? That she was supposed to take over Hannah's body? That she was born with Hannah's soul?
Too many unanswered questions ripped through her. Glancing once more at the names linked before her, she almost grew enraged at the entire situation. This was her life someone was playing with here.
Her life!
But if she were stuck here, then by God she would stake a claim to it. All of it!
She rose quickly to her feet. She knew that somewhere in this cabin there had to be the items she needed. After rifling through some of Jack's things in a chest with drawers, the cabinet with spices, and some wooden boxes filled with odds and ends stuffed under the bed, she finally found them. Not sure how they worked, but it didn't matter. She would do what she had set out to do and the simple matter that she didn't know beans about how to write with a quill pen and ink didn't faze her.
So she returned to the Bible. After a few practice swipes on a blank sheet of the parchment in the back, Claire set out to finish her task. Directly underneath Hannah and Jack's betrothed names and the date, she wrote two things. The first: Hannah Amalie Bell Porter, died May 21, 1718. Then, with shaking hands, the second: Hannah Claire Winslow betrothed to Jackson Miller Porter.
When it came to the date, she faltered. They'd not actually married, had they? But it seemed as if they were. Perhaps, we will. Someday. Did she want that?
Damn! What am I saying here? Am I saying that I want to marry Jack and stay here forever?
The ink dried and Claire stared down at the words she'd hastily written in the Bible, feeling somewhat guilty about writing in someone else's property. She doubted Jack ever went through Hannah's things.
But as she looked at the writing a bit longer, a chill traveled up her back and settle around her heart. Even with Claire's shaky handwriting and her clumsiness using the quill pen, she could see the similarities. Stroke for stroke, Claire's handwriting matched that of Hannah Porter.
Stunned, she silently closed the book, not caring if it smeared, and placed the Bible back in the chest. She layered Hannah's clothing on top and closed the hinged lid. Turning back to stare at the empty cabin, too many thoughts jumbled up the control panels of her brain.
She was going into overload. Confused. Too much to think about.
She couldn't live like this for the rest of her life.
Exhausted, she climbed onto the bed she'd been sharing with Jack, covered herself with the thin small coverlet, and momentarily slept her fears away. She no longer cared that she hadn't baked bread.
Jack would just have to deal with it.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Eleven
"I think I've figured it out."
Claire sat across the table from Jack, the whale oil lamp settling a low yellow glow over the room. She watched him finish his dinner. The dinner he'd prepared, as usual. Jack had long since given up on her eighteenth century culinary pursuits. Besides, he was doing a more than adequate job and he'd resigned himself to the fact that one of the major differences between Claire and Hannah was that Claire didn't cook.
That and the fact that he thought Claire was a sex fiend.
His head rose slowly and he stared, chewing. The rhythm slowed the longer he waited.
She knew what he was thinking.
She lowered her gaze and stared at a pewter bowl in the center of the table. She was nearly certain she had figured out the stone's magic. What with her questions of Jack the past couple of weeks, the things she remembered from the night she passed through and the nights she first saw him, not to mention her crude translation of the stone's inscription, she felt close. The only way to be sure though, was to test her theory—and she wasn't quite sure she wanted to do that. She had no fear of returning to the future, but she had every fear of never being able to return to Jack, if she needed, or wanted, to do so.
"Tell me what you think about the magic."
She faced him and knew she had to tell him her thoughts.
"From what I remember of the nights I first saw you, and then from what you told me, I think there is only a certain period of time when one can pass through. The thing that frightens me is how will the portal know to which time to return me? What if it transports me to ancient Egypt or to the year 2525? Do I have a choice? Does it pick where it wants me to go? Or does it simply return me where it found me?"
"It returned me to where it found me."
She nodded. “Yes, it did. And that's what I'm counting on.” She watched Jack's face grimace and she could tell he was trying desperately to control his reaction to her statement as well as to understand her theory. “I mean, should we decide that I, or perhaps we, have to return at some point, I want to be relatively certain that I'm going back from whence I came."
He nodded his agreement.
"It seems that there are certain events that must occur to trigger the opening to the portal. You said you found the stone after a storm. You also said you thought the night was light, so I'm counting on it being a full moon. When I was in my own time, there was a blue moon, the second full moon that month.” She thought about telling him about Mr. Waters saying that he haunted the beach looking for Hannah during a blue moon, but thought better of it. “You said the tide was high, too.
I don't know about the tide in my time. But there was a hurricane the night we first ... the night you came to me at the cottage. Remember? On the stone, there are some words I think I've figured out. They are celestial orb, or moon, tide, and something about winds. It all fits, you see. And I think there must be something about the convergence of all of these events that make time travel possible. So maybe it's the period of all these happenings."
Jack spoke, breaking her concentration. “So how do you know for sure?"
"I don't. Not really. That is, I wouldn't know unless..."
Jack cleared his throat and sat up straight. His gaze pinned hers so that she felt she couldn't move. “Unless?"
He knew. There was only one way. She exhaled in defeat. “Never mind.” She rose and stepped away from the table, not wanting to get into that discussion at the moment.
Within seconds he was behind her, his hot breath skimming over the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. “Yes, you do Hannah. You know exactly how to do it, don't you?"
She slowly turned, fearful of the tone of his voice. “What do you mean by that?"
Jack grasped her upper arms and turned her to him. “What I mean is that you know how to do it. The question is, are you going to do it?"
"No,” she answered matter-of-factly.
"Good.” Jack dropped her arms and turned away, dismissing the subject. “Let's sleep now."
Staring at Jack's back as he stepped across the room, watching him extinguish the first of the two oil lamps, she felt her blood begin to boil.
How dare he?
As he bent to snuff out the last one, she took two steps forward and called out his name.
He turned his body halfway to her. The confident and smug look on his face told her all she needed to know.
"What do you mean, good?"
Jack straightened to his full height and simply looked at her. “What do I mean? Good is good. That is what I mean. You'll stay away from that stone."
She crossed her arms and shook her head back and forth. “No, that's not what you mean. What you mean is you're not even considering the effect that staying or going will have on me. You want it your way and that's that!"