David smiled. “It seems you’ve made a friend.”
“He’s very sweet. What’s his name?”
He crouched before the wheel again, lifting it off and laying it in the grass beside the new one. “Old Napoleon I call him. He’s very old—you can see the gray around his muzzle.” He dipped a finger into a tin of grease and began daubing it around the axle hub. “I assume the lieutenant was right—you’re staying at one of the large hotels?”
“Yes,”—remembering what Mrs. Bates had said—“the Henry Hudson.”
“How did you come to be up here, that day I saw you on the road?”
“I was out walking, and I wanted to see the lake from here. It’s a lovely view.”
“Yes, that’s why I like living here. It reminds me of Europe.”
“Have you lived here long?”
“I rented this place, and agreed to farm it, when Pamela and I decided to marry. That was . . . not too long ago, after I came back from Europe.”
She hesitated, then decided to risk it. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Lieutenant Stickney. Rachel is Pamela’s sister?”
He glanced at her from where he was lifting the new wheel onto the axle hub. “Her younger sister, yes. Lieutenant Stickney’s fiancee. I suppose you overheard the difficulty they’re having.”
“I heard something about elopement.”
He grinned: “I hope you can keep a secret. But, yes, that’s the plan. You see, old man Hubbard, Pamela’s father, Rachel’s father, is a strange man. Probably always was, but—well, I don’t know if you want to hear all this.”
“Oh, it’s very interesting. Please go on.”
“Well, you see, Matthew Hubbard lost his wife, the girls’ mother, when Pamela was about thirteen. Of a fever, I believe. And that’s made him very possessive of his daughters. He has no sons—only Rachel now, and a third daughter just turned sixteen. But Pamela was always his favorite. She was the oldest, and she took charge then, being a mother to her sisters, taking care of the household. And I think Hubbard convinced himself she’d never marry, that she’d stay with him till he died.”
“He must dislike you very much then.”
“I’m afraid he does. He only relented when Pamela made it clear she would marry with or without his consent. I doubt that would have any effect now, in Rachel’s case. She’s not as strong as Pamela, and in any event Hubbard seems determined now that she shouldn’t marry. She’s no longer even allowed out of the house except in the company of the family. Not even allowed to receive Charles’ letters. Which is why he’s here—he was getting them back unopened.”
“And you hope to convince her to elope.”
He smiled. “I doubt much convincing will be necessary. Not if I know Rachel and the way she feels about Charles. The difficulty will be in getting to see her. And arranging a way.”
“What if her father learns you were involved? Won’t that be dangerous?”
“He could be unpleasant, I suppose. But he is already that.”
“Is he—a violent man?”
He picked up the hub-nut and eased it carefully onto the axle hub. “It’s hard to say. He came here from Virginia, and Southerners are noted for their tempers. But I doubt he’d actually resort to violence.”
He began turning the nut with a wrench, hand over hand so that the rhythm of the turning never ceased, and Jennie looked away, out across the road and toward the lake below, which she could not see from here. Bees hummed somewhere beyond the hedge, and a butterfly fluttered across a stand of weeds, settled briefly on a leaf, wings pulsing, then fluttered away again. From somewhere near the barn came the cackling of chickens in some sudden conflict in the chicken yard. She was afraid to continue asking questions, but there was so much more she wanted to know. Somehow it had to be possible for her to intervene in this process so that the fate he did not even know awaited him could be averted. That was why she was here, she was sure of that now; she had been sent back here to save this man with whom there was no longer any doubt that she was in love. Even if he never learned she loved him, even if after she had succeeded in preventing his death the mysterious force which had brought her here sent her irrevocably back into her own time, so that she never saw him again, she could live happy then, knowing she had fulfilled her purpose.
He finished tapping the hubcap back on and with a sledge hammer which had been leaning against the running board knocked the blocks out from under the axle. The buggy dropped lightly to the ground, rocking a bit on its springs. “Done,” he said, wiping his hands on the rag. “May I offer you lunch? You’ve been very patient.”
“I like watching you work,” she said, getting up from the box. “I’ve never seen a buggy wheel changed before.”
“I do everything. Feed the pigs, the chickens—but it gives me a place to live while I do my own work.” He grinned. “At least that’s what I thought when I took the place on. I’m beginning to wonder.”
She smiled. They were walking toward the house. “You’ll have to let me help you feed the pigs. That would be an experience.”
“Certainly it would be an experience for me. I’d be delighted.”
They were climbing the steps to the long front porch when she heard the snorting of a horse and the clip-clop of hooves and looked back to see a buggy turn into the drive and come toward them, emerging like an apparition through the gate, a reminder that she was really here, in 1899. It excited her. The driver was a blond man in his middle twenties, wearing a straw boater. As the buggy pulled up before the house, she saw the eyes of his companion—a darkly beautiful young woman in a white dress similar to her own—gazing coolly and inquisitively at her from the shade of a ruffled parasol.
“David,” the woman called as she came up the walk, “Edward and I decided you’ve been alone quite long enough, so we’ve come to call.” She kissed him on the cheek, glancing quickly at Jennie. “I hope we’re not intruding.”
“No one’s ever known you to intrude, Elizabeth,” David said, with a touch of irony, and made the introductions. The woman was Elizabeth Hartley, the man her brother Edward. “Miss Logan is staying at the Henry Hudson.”
“How nice.” The woman eyed her critically. “I do hope you’re enjoying it.” Then she looped her arm through David’s and led him to the round wicker table in the corner of the porch, where her brother had deposited a large picnic basket. “We’ve brought lunch. I hope you don’t mind. It’s quite good, we got it at Bradley’s—you must go there, Miss Logan, the best market in town—sliced ham and cold chicken and some fine Gruyere. Buns from Langstraat’s. And two bottles of wine. Cold. I’m sure there’s enough for four.”
When the basket was emptied, the table seemed to glow with the green of the wine bottles, the pale yellow of the cheese, the icy clarity of the glasses. Watching Edward, in his candy-striped blazer and white trousers, dip a slice of chicken into mayonnaise, hearing Elizabeth chattering flirtatiously to David, Jennie was deliciously aware that she was participating in a scene out of dozens of photographs and paintings from the eighteen-nineties. It was marred only by her covert jealousy, but she had the comforting feeling that David had placed himself at her side deliberately, allying himself with her. Elizabeth sat across the table from her, Edward on her other side.
“Are you staying at one of the hotels, too?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” Edward said. He had a nice smile beneath his blond moustache. “The Hartleys are native Chesapequans, I’m afraid.”
“It was Edward and Elizabeth who introduced me to Chesapequa,” David said.
“We pretend not to like the summer trade,” Edward said, “but actually we thrive on it. Without it the town would be very dull. I’m sure you enjoy getting away from New York, but I do miss it.”
“Edward once wanted to be a painter, too,” Elizabeth said, playing with a Japanese fan. “But when Daddy died, he decided it was more lucrative to take over the family business, didn’t you, Edward?”
&n
bsp; “Luckily, I found out early I hadn’t enough talent.”
Elizabeth eyed him with affectionate malice. “Soon he’ll be a respectable burgher married to a fat wife, with a dozen children.”
“Hardly. I have no plans to marry till I’m thirty. Maybe a child at thirty-five.”
“But look at the opportunities you may miss with that attitude. All the attractive young ladies will be gone by then. Don’t you find my brother a handsome man, Miss Logan?”
“Elizabeth, please.” Surprisingly, Edward Hartley was blushing.
Jennie had felt an instant dislike for this woman; after an hour’s conversation it had grown to a genuine aversion. Elizabeth made little effort to conceal her advances toward David and seemed confident they would be well received. She was certainly beautiful, a lush and almost Latin beauty, with streaks of red in her dark brown hair, and large dark eyes which she knew how to use to good effect. Though women probably matured earlier in this era, she seemed in her early twenties. Her mouth was broad and sensual, and the sweep of her lacy dress did little to hide the voluptuous curves of her figure. David seemed to like her, to be amused by her, and by the time the food was gone and the sun had begun to strike the western edge of the porch, Jennie was more than a little jealous.
Elizabeth was playing the coquette with David, trying to convince him to let her puff on his pipe.
“Elizabeth,” her brother said, “don’t make a spectacle of yourself.”
“Hmmpf, why should men have all the fun? I think it’s so attractive for a man to smoke a pipe. Perhaps I should take up cigarettes. Some women do, you know.”
“We know what kind of women, Elizabeth.”
“You’re quite attractive enough without a cigarette,” David drawled.
“Am I really? I remember when you used to think so. I used to be David’s favorite model, Miss Logan, can you believe that? Oh, nothing risqué, of course, though I admit the notion intrigued me. But David was always too proper.”
“Elizabeth. You must forgive my sister, Miss Logan. She loves to shock, but she’s really quite respectable.”
Elizabeth hit him with her fan. “How boring. You don’t know how I envy the freedom some women have. The women in those figure classes you and David used to attend, for instance. I met one of them once, you know. Fully clothed, of course, after the class. She wasn’t nearly so attractive as I am.”
“Her attractiveness, or lack of it, was not the point, my dear.”
“Oh, but wouldn’t it be so much more interesting if she were terribly attractive?”
David smiled. “I think you’re just intrigued by the idea of distracting the students.”
“You’ll drive us all to distraction,” Edward said, “and I don’t mean through your beauty, evident though it is. Can’t we get this conversation onto more suitable ground? I’m afraid we’re making a bad impression on Miss Logan.”
Elizabeth smiled smugly over her fan. “I think Miss Logan is mature enough to understand.”
“Now you’re being rude. I think we should go.” Edward stood up. “Really, ever since Father died, Elizabeth has been unmanageable,” he said to David. “She wants everyone to believe she’s going to kick over the traces at any moment.”
“And I might, I just might,” Elizabeth said. “You must let us drive you back to your hotel, Miss Logan. It will save poor David going into town, and we all know what a recluse he’s become.”
“No, thank you. I enjoy the walk.”
“You’re sure?” Edward said, picking up his hat, the basket over his arm. “It can be a very pleasant drive. Well, perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
Jennie remained on the porch as the others strolled out to the buggy, Elizabeth with her arm through David’s, laughing, whispering something in his ear. David helped her up into the buggy, and she leaned down and placed a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him. Jennie felt the worm of jealousy stir within her again, and then, slowly, the growth of an ominous suspicion: the other woman, who was seen leaving the scene of the crime, who was suspected of killing him—was that Elizabeth? She was obviously in pursuit of him. Had she, Jennie, witnessed the birth, or rebirth, of a relationship which was to lead to his death? And wasn’t that why she felt that love inside her, felt even from David that strong attraction? They were meant to fall in love, so that she could prevent his taking up with “the other woman” of Mrs. Bates’ story. She felt again that sense of confirmation: she was here for a purpose, she had been placed at this meeting for a purpose. Whoever had killed him, Hubbard or Elizabeth, she was meant to prevent it. That had to be why she was here, the one person who knew what was destined to happen.
Edward Hartley flicked the reins, and the buggy started toward the gate. Jennie turned back to the table. It had the look of an artist’s still life: sunlight through half-empty wine glasses, pale slices of cheese on the dark brown plate, the scrap of a bun lying among a litter of paper wrappings. She began cleaning up, wrapping the bun in the paper.
David came up the steps behind her. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.
She turned to see him poised against the porch pillar, smiling at her. The sudden absence of the other two seemed to create a new and special intimacy between them.
“We didn’t finish the wine, in any case,” he said.
“Would you like more?”
“As a matter of fact, I would. If you’ll have another glass with me.”
He pulled up his chair again and relit his pipe. She poured the wine, first into his glass, then into her own. It seemed a very intimate act. She was aware now of the comfortable quiet of the yard, a faint breeze rustling the leaves of the trees, the drone of a bee approaching and receding through the warm summer sunlight.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he said.
She smiled. “You promised to let me help you feed the pigs.”
“Did I? Another day perhaps. If you’ll come again? The greedy brutes were already fed today. You may help me feed the chickens, though.”
“I’d like that.”
“You’ll have to forgive me my friends. Edward is really a pleasant man, but Elizabeth can sometimes be a trial.”
“I thought she was . . . amusing.”
He chuckled. “She is that. She’s changed a lot. When I first met them, she wasn’t nearly so, well, outspoken.”
“You knew them before you came to Chesapequa, you said.”
“Yes, Edward and I met in New York. I first came to Chesapequa to visit the Hartleys.”
“And then you met Pamela?”
“Yes, that came later.”
From behind the barn came a sudden squabble of chickens.
David smiled. “I believe they’re impatient. Shall we?”
He led her across the yard to a small dim room in the corner of the barn. Light came through cracks in the walls; corn was ricked high in a crib along one side. He took a bucket from a nail on the wall and began shelling corn into it, wrenching the ears between his hands, the dried kernels pattering against the tin.
“The city fathers will have to add a new attraction for summer visitors,” he said, “feeding chickens. This can’t have been the way you planned to spend your time in Chesapequa.”
“No, but it’s much more pleasant. I’m alone so much of the time. Today has been the nicest day I’ve spent since I came here.” She was a little surprised to hear herself say that, to realize it was true.
“I must say it has been the nicest day I’ve spent in some time, too.” He smiled up at her. “For which you bear no small responsibility.”
When he had finished shelling the corn he added a scoop of gleaming grain from one of the barrels against the wall and then led her out through a gate in the fence to the chicken yard. Chickens scratched and pecked in the bare dirt. He set the bucket down on a stump between them and flung a handful of corn and grain in a wide arc toward the chickens. Squawking, they came in a comic, awkward run, and she couldn’t help laughing. She saw
from the corner of her eye that he was smiling at her, and she felt herself blush, knowing he was pleased.
“You do it,” he said.
Hesitantly, she dipped her hand into the cool, dry grain and threw a fistful toward the chickens, watching them scatter to the spot where it fell. Involuntarily, she looked to him for approval; his eyes met hers, and she felt the fullness of her mouth begin to quiver. She looked away, excitement and pleasure pulsing in her throat. He threw out another handful of corn; she laughed and clapped her hands as one large red rooster rose up in a flurry of feathers to scatter a flock of hens.
“Watch that red one,” David said. “He’s king of the flock.”
She nodded, happy, watching the rooster. She felt very elemental, throwing corn and grain to a flock of chickens in the shadow of a barn on a clear sunny afternoon in 1899. When she reached into the bucket for another handful, she felt her hand collide with his. Flushed, she fumbled in the corn, felt their hands touch, move apart, touch again. “Oh, look,” she said, as the rooster scattered another cluster of hens to get at the corn, but she was aware of nothing so strongly as the hot flush creeping up over her face and the fumbling touch of their hands in the bucket. For one long moment, she felt his hand rest against hers; then it was gone, and he brought up another handful of grain to throw at the chickens.
She swallowed, to gain control of her voice. “Is there only one rooster?”
“Yes,” he said, “there’s only one rooster.”
She was afraid to look at him; she kept watching the rooster, excitement thickening her throat.
“Here,” he said, “try again.”
Only when she had dipped her hand into the bucket and scattered another handful of corn toward the chickens did she find the courage to look at him. His gaze was steady and direct.
“You are a very beautiful woman,” he said. “I would like you to pose for me. Just a sketch at first, if you would.”
She hesitated. The sun was casting long shadows; it was getting late. She had compared the time on his kitchen clock with the time on her own when she had come back into her own century the day before. The times were the same. She would have to get back before Michael came home, so he wouldn’t see her in the dress. She didn’t want to arouse his suspicions.
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