“Oh, God, Margaret. We’ve had two of them. Millions upon millions of people killed. Fifty-five million in the second one alone.”
“The whole world?”
“Yes, including places you don’t know about because they haven’t been settled yet.”
“Wars.” She shook her head. “That’s why the Deyhles and the Woodsons came here.”
“The Woodsons?”
“My maiden name. My grandparents ran from Cromwell’s assassins just as did yours.”
“Maybe the sickness is inside. It’s in every time. My time has better weapons.”
“We haven’t had a war yet,” Margaret stoutly said, “except for the Indians.”
“You will. There’s a real big one coming up in the 1770s.”
“I’ll be dead then.”
“Will you?” Cig stuck her foot out of the tub. “Am I dead? How do you know you won’t come back in another time? I’m here from another time and I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but I’m alive, you’re alive and as you can see, those things in my pocket couldn’t possibly be manufactured in 1699.”
Tears ran down Margaret’s creamy cheeks. “I don’t know what to think.”
“I don’t either. But I swear to you by all that is holy that I truly come from the last gasp of the twentieth century.”
“But you are Pryor Deyhle, our Pryor.”
“I reckon I am but I don’t know how. Maybe there are holes in time, Margaret. Maybe I fell through one and… here I am.”
“What do you remember about that day?” Margaret wiped her tears.
“I was foxhunting and got lost in the fog. What was curious was that I had moments when I felt as though I was going back in time but I discounted them—it was too fantastic. And here’s what’s truly strange—a fox led me! I know this fox. I’ve hunted him for about four years now. Fattail.”
“A big, big red with an enormous tail.” Margaret gripped the side of the tub. “I know him,” she gasped. “He’s bold as Lucifer.”
“Look at this.” Cig picked up and turned on the flashlight.
Margaret leaned back then reached for it. She clicked it on and off, marveling at it. “Surely this is magic.” Then she again stared at the license. “Pryor, you must feel,” she searched for the words, “terrible pain and loneliness. You don’t recognize me at all, do your?”
Cig shook her head. “But I trust you. In my time people don’t really trust one another. Our lives are easier physically but in other ways we’ve only made things worse. It’s difficult to explain because you trust so naturally. So trust me in this—I am from another time.”
Margaret’s lips quivered. “What happened to the Pryor I know, the sister I love? Where is she?”
Cig thought a long time. “I don’t know but there are more things in heaven and earth than we can dream of.” She quoted Shakespeare.
“You know the play?”
“Shakespeare is considered the greatest playwright that we ever produced.” Cig smiled because they did know things in common. “Maybe I lived this life. Maybe I am the Pryor you know. After all, the soul is eternal. Somehow I slipped back to your time. I can’t think of another reason, and maybe trying to find a reason will only make this more painful—you see, Margaret, I left two children behind.”
“Merciful heaven.” Margaret’s hands flew to her face.
“A son, seventeen, and a daughter, fifteen.” That did it. Cig’s calm facade shattered, and her tears began dripping into the bathwater.
Margaret threw her arms around the sobbing woman, heedless of getting wet herself. “There, there, Pryor, God is merciful He will not allow your children to suffer. Somehow all will be well. We must believe that. Truly we must or this burden will crush us both.”
“I could give up the rest, I suppose. I could bear not to see my friends, but my children—that I cannot bear.”
Margaret took her hands in a strong grip. “Trust in God. We must trust in His wisdom. Perhaps He sent you back to us as a gift. He will care for your children.”
“I hope so.” Cig cried until she couldn’t see anymore and felt like throwing up. Finally she began to feel a little better.
Margaret looked at the dates on the license again. “Forty—but you’re only twenty-eight, you and Tom.”
“I’m forty.”
“How is it that you look so young?”
“We have such good doctors, such excellent medical and dental care—unless one is terribly poor, that is. We get shots against diseases, diseases that kill you now. Some of them we’ve stopped entirely, or contained, like malaria.”
“Malaria?”
“The sweating sickness—it’s caused by the bite of a certain mosquito. Before we figured out how to eradicate it completely, a doctor called Walter Reed did that, we realized we could help people infected with it by dosing them with quinine. I don’t know if you have quinine yet.”
Margaret shook her head no, as she did not recognize the word quinine. Had Cig said Peruvian bark she would have had an inkling as to the medicine.
“Look at my teeth.” Cig opened her mouth.
Margaret peered into Cig’s mouth. “It’s full of silver.”
“Fillings. This way I won’t lose teeth.”
Margaret sat back down. “Pryor, we must not speak of this to anyone else.”
“Because they’ll lock me up?”
“No. You aren’t harmful. And there are no lunatic asylums in Virginia unless you believe the whole colony to be one.” A hint of sarcasm informed her tone. “People would say you suffered delusions—some would worry about tainted blood.”
“Hereditary insanity.” Cig exhaled slowly.
“Yes, your marriage plans would be compromised and in the future, when your children are grown, it could be whispered—tainted blood—and their chances would be compromised.”
“Do I frighten you?”
“Yes and yet I know you. You may be this person here,” she held up the driver’s license, “but you are also my sister and I believe that God has brought you home—an earlier home. He has work for you to do.” Her faith blazed from her. “And He will care for all those you love in,” she paused but got it out, “1995. The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.”
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.”
“He restoreth my soul.”
The two finished the Twenty-third Psalm in unison. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”
12
Low clouds hid the sun. Cig didn’t know what time it was when she arose. She missed her alarm clock, the one with the snooze button. She especially missed indoor plumbing as she dashed across the quad to the privy.
When she came back into the house she ducked out of the heavy woolen shift and rummaged around the huge wardrobe for something to wear. The dresses, some quite pretty, surprised her. She hadn’t expected to find such beautiful clothing. She pulled out an old shirt, a pair of leather breeches, heavy cotton hose and a leather pullover shirt. The wearer of these clothes evidenced a practical streak.
Margaret’s praying with her last night, her belief that this had to be for a purpose, helped Cig. She knew if she tried to figure out what had happened to her, if she tried to escape time, she would truly go mad. So she greeted the day with a small prayer.
“Dear God, thank you for this day, for my health and for the health of my children wherever they might be. Thank you for showing me your love through Margaret Deyhle. If you could help me back to my time I would be grateful. Amen.”
Much as she wanted to head upriver on the James River road she knew dangers existed for which she was unprepared. The murdered Indian remained foremost in her mind.
She ventured out into the upstairs hallway, as wide as the center hall downstairs, with windows at both ends. Cig was impressed by the house. No one had money for frills but the ventilation and light
were excellent, better than in many modern homes. The good furniture, which had to have been brought from England, shone with hand rubbings. Upstairs the beds, nightstands and chairs were fashioned from New World woods, maple mostly. The farm abounded in maples, walnuts, oaks, chestnuts, beeches, elms, dramatic sycamores, gums, and a variety of conifers. One large mirror, a prized possession given the expense of glass, hung in the upstairs hall. Her boots fit perfectly over the leather breeches while the worn lace of the pressed shirt spilled out from under the leather pullover. She hurried back downstairs, grabbed some cornbread and headed to the stable. She might as well earn her keep.
She fed the horses, the cattle, the chickens, and the one pig who followed her around oinking.
As Bobby and Marie made their way to the privy, Cig was glad she’d gotten there first.
The morning stayed cloudy and cool. Cig set out to explore the farm, what she knew of it. The clover fields, farther back from the river, were rich and a line of bee boxes marked one side. The tobacco fields rolled on and on. Tom had clearly put his faith in the crop, and well he should. Europe couldn’t get enough of the weed.
Cig observed the chestnut rail snake fencing, how Tom took advantage of the roll of the land and the abundance of fresh water. Buckingham was a fine piece of Virginia, and the Deyhles were intelligent farmers.
A small apple orchard on higher ground lent a pleasing symmetry to the place. As she walked down the farm lane back to the barn she spied Tom and another man riding up from the south on the river road. The sun broke through the clouds, a shaft of golden light on the men. She stopped to admire the spray of diamond lights on the water. Tom’s companion, seeing Cig, spurred his horse into a gallop, riding straight for her.
She thought to herself that she had to quickly find out who he was without appearing not to know. This plan was blasted the moment he came close.
He was at least six four, with hair so black it was blue, and a heavy beard already showing on his face, despite the fact that he’d undoubtedly been shaved that morning by a servant. A gleaming smile covered his face. He swept off his hunter green hat with its ostrich plume as he approached. Large soft leather boots, rolled over at the top, made him look the cavalier he was.
“Blackie, what are you doing here?” The blood ran out of her face.
“Mademoiselle?”
“You’re alive!” she gasped, terrified yet thrilled to behold that familiar, handsome face.
“Alive? Alive, exuberant, overcome,” he bowed in the saddle, “that divine Providence brought you safely home to me.” He hesitated a moment. “Pryor, love, I’ll answer to whatever you call me—Blackie?”
Cig’s rib cage was bruised inside from her heart. Trust your heart, she thought to herself. Trust God Whatever is going on, trust God.
He dismounted, swept her off the ground with one muscled arm and kissed her even though she took a step backward. He was not a man to be denied. His horse snorted. He held her so close she thought she’d suffocate. She remembered sweet, treacherous kisses and these tasted the same.
He kissed her again. “You deceived me.” He playfully chided her, a glint of worry in his deep, dark eyes.
“Never.”
“I have inquired at the harbor every day for the last two months. I wanted to be at the docks to greet my lady properly. How did you get here? No ship has come in from England.”
“Oh,” her mind raced, “I have my secrets.”
Tom rode up. “You recognize Lionel! I knew you would.”
Lionel put his strong arm around Cig, pulling her back toward the house, his horse obediently clopping after him. “Tom told me the journey was difficult, you need time to rest.” He nuzzled her ear. “Not too long, I pray. I’ve waited too long as it is.”
“She’ll be her old self.” Tom smiled reflexively. “A bit of a rest, and selfishly, a bit more time with us.”
So many questions crowded into Cig’s mind that she suffered an instant headache. She stayed silent.
Cig couldn’t tear her eyes off the man, as like Blackie as spit. Same baritone voice, strong jaw, and from what she could quickly ascertain, same big ego.
Marie, Bobby’s wife, a stout red-haired woman of vast energy, cooked a big breakfast while Margaret served. When Cig offered to help, Margaret told her to visit with Lionel and winked at her.
Cig felt giddy, disoriented. The safest bet was to avoid talking about herself. She encouraged Lionel to talk about himself, an easy task.
“What of the murdered Indian?”
“Bad blood, I should think.” Lionel, despite refined table manners, ate his shirred eggs with obvious relish. “If you’d seen more than one savage I’d worry but this had the mark of hate, of revenge.”
“I feel much assured,” Margaret murmured as she passed around enticing cinnamon buns.
Lionel smiled at Margaret then at Cig. “If I find that savage I’ll give him a thrashing before I hang him just for frightening you. In fact, I’ll thrash any man who dares look at you cross-eyed.”
“But what if he is cross-eyed?” The corner of Cig’s mouth curled upward. This might even be fun, she thought to herself.
“Blessed man for he shall see God twice,” Lionel replied.
They laughed, and Cig thought, that’s not changed, that ready insouciant wit. Lionel held forth on tobacco prices, the need to pressure the Crown for lower taxes to be paid in tobacco or tobacco notes against the crop. He expressed an opinion on everything, and Cig appeared to drink it in, every syllable. Clearly, he was aggressive, rich, and accustomed to power. He was a man who got his way, and if he didn’t get it, he’d find a way around the obstacle. Failing that, he’d smash whatever held him back.
After breakfast the two walked to Lionel’s horse, a large-boned, 17-hand flaming chestnut. Tom and Margaret discreetly disappeared.
He put his hand on the flap of the saddle. “As soon as I attend to pressing matters I shall make a proper call upon a beautiful lady, an angel of light and laughter.” Lionel bowed to her again, then paused.
“Lionel.” Her heart pounding, she put her hand on his shoulder. She felt she knew him—yet. She wanted to warn him. “Do you believe we could have met before—or in another time?”
He studied her, his jet mustache setting off his tobacco-stained teeth. “There are those who believe such things—not good Englishmen, mind you. A curious concept. No. I don’t believe it but,” his eyes twinkled, “life can’t be a vale of tears in those countries that hold such beliefs.”
“Oh?”
“If life were terrible, why return?” He laughed. “Unless I could be certain I’d find you again.”
His florid romanticism appealed to Cig more than she cared to admit. “Maybe we return because we have to solve a problem… or soothe a wound inflicted in an earlier life.”
“Ah—continuous resurrection complete with thorns. Pryor,” he kissed her cheek, “these matters are of no weight and therefore delicious to digest. The fanciful captures the mind like bright colors capture hummingbirds. I think we turn to other worlds and extravagant promises when this world bends our backs with pain or the infirmities of age.” He drew his face closer to hers and whispered, “My beautiful Pryor is home!”
“Thank you, Lionel.” She kissed him, a lingering kiss tasting of cinnamon and vanilla. Then he mounted up, returning south on the river road.
Dazed and dazzled, Cig followed his figure until he rounded a sweeping bend in the James. He turned, doffed his hat and then disappeared.
As Cig turned to go back to the stable she looked out over the James. Heraclitus said in 500 B.C., “You never step into the same river twice.” She wondered.
Margaret caught up to her. “I knew you’d remember him.”
“I don’t,” Cig continued as Margaret’s expression shifted, “I can only tell you that Lionel deVries is John Blackwood to the teeth.” She shivered. “My husband, Blackie.”
Margaret was beyond shock. She neither believed nor dis
believed. “Then you should be happy indeed.”
Cig gave her a withering glance. “You don’t know what my marriage was like.”
“Pryor, whatever that marriage was like, you need not repeat your tribulations, although all marriages share in some tribulation. Men are unreasonable creatures at times.”
“Most times.”
Margaret smiled. “Sometimes I think we live in different worlds but if you choose Lionel for your husband I wish you well.”
“Do you like him?”
Margaret folded her arms over her bosom and stopped. “Pryor, what I think of the man matters not at all.”
“That means you don’t like him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“He’s a man who brooks no interference.”
Cig clasped her hands behind her back, wistfully saying, “When I just saw Lionel I was—flying. I hoped for one ludicrous instant that Blackie had come back to me and he’d learned something.”
“What about you learning something?”
Cig appreciated this shrewd remark. “I’m trying.” She inhaled. “But I’m not sure what I’m supposed to learn.”
“In God’s time.”
“God thinks in centuries!” Cig peevishly shot back.
“And so do you—now.” Margaret, stifling a laugh, started back to the house.
13
A light frost made the grass crunch underfoot. The James River lapped little gray waves on the shores as low dark clouds brushed the treetops. The brilliant color of the leaves against the pewter sky provided the only cheer but the wind was fast ripping the leaves off the trees. Winter had arrived overnight.
Cig’s spirits rose and fell in direct proportion to the sunshine. She’d taken over the animal chores and checking the bee boxes so that Tom could put in more hours in the back fields. He carried a huge flintlock, which he’d said he’d fire if there was trouble. A huge bell by the back door would call him if the house were threatened. A systematic, slow clap of the bell meant dinnertime. A rapid clanging meant fire, injury, marauders. Cig had little faith in Tom’s flintlock but she declined to tell him.
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