C1PHER

by Monica E. Spence

  Chapter Three

  The rhythm of hoof beats grew closer, and yet another of Mary’s questions went unanswered. A young man rode up and dismounted next to Robert. “Mister Townsend, the blacksmith from your cousin’s farm will be here momentarily with tools to repair the coach.”

  “Excellent news, Ned. Thank you for making such good time.”

  Ned bowed to Mary. “I am delighted to see you are up and about, my Lady.”

  It might be easier to use sugar instead of vinegar to get their cooperation. Maybe they were both nuts. She shouldn’t provoke them. Or maybe she was the one who was batshit crazy. “Thank you, Ned. I hope to feel more like myself by tomorrow.” She hobbled away, deciding to put as much space as possible between the men and herself. A blacksmith? Uh huh. Someone—a bunch of somebodies—was taking this whole re-enactor business way too much to heart.

  Then again, there were some guys who hightailed it into the woods and stayed there, living on what they could catch and trap, for a year at a time. No running water, no chocolate, no pizza, and no cable TV. The life of a frontiersman got under their skin. They might show up at a Rendezvous, or a muster, to trade with other re-enactors every once in a while, but they were 9944/100 % purely on their own under God’s open sky. Maybe this Robert guy took his re-enacting as seriously as those frontiersmen—only he smelled nicer.

  She brushed off her dress and prayed her drycleaner could get out the stains. She halted in mid-swipe and remembered what Ned had said. He called Robert…Mr. Townsend. Robert Townsend? As in Samuel Culper Junior, Washington’s best spy? That’s why he looked so familiar—she repaired the frame around his portrait only last week. The pounding of her heart made her breath come in short gasps. Maybe I’m the crazy one. How could he be the Robert Townsend? He lived over two hundred years ago. She glanced at him again, and her gut twitched. Not bad for a two-hundred-year-old man.

  She held on to the tree branch, not just as a weapon, but as a cane to support her twisted ankle, and haltingly made her way to the back of the coach. Her leather trunk had fallen off the rear of the vehicle and the lid stood partially open. She sighed. The dress she had ironed and so carefully housed in a plastic bag was spread across the top of the lid—sans plastic bag. Her panniers peeked out of the trunk like ears. Dust had settled everywhere. Great.

  Then it hit her. The papers. She ignored her throbbing ankle, shambled to the trunk as fast as her swollen foot could carry her, and bent over to feel around its floor. Nothing but clothes. Without thinking, she picked up her paniers and gown, stuck them under her arm. She stumbled toward the two men working on the wheel, still leaning on the branch.

  Robert had pulled off his shirt and vest to work to loosen a piece of metal. His broad shoulders flexed in the sunlight. The ribbon from his queue came untied. He pulled it off and tossed it into the open window of the coach letting his long brown hair fly; he had also taken off his glasses.

  Her mouth felt like the Sahara, and her legs resembled collapsing tent poles. She gasped, half in embarrassment, half in shock. Yummmmm. She never expected him to be so drop-dead gorgeous. That old portrait did nothing for him. Who knew? Suddenly, her day was looking up.

  Robert turned to her. “May I be of assistance, my dear?”

  Hot blood suffused her cheeks. When did she become a blushing schoolgirl? She had seen men without their shirts—and a whole lot less. She must keep a clear head; it was the only way to get out of this mess. Don’t fall apart now, girl. She cleared her throat. She could play her part—anything to get back those papers.

  She fumbled in both pocket bags beneath her skirt but could not find her cell phone. “Robert, I seem to be missing a couple of things. Have you seen my cell phone? I had it in my pocket, and now it’s gone.”

  “I regret to say I am unfamiliar with the term ‘cell phone.’ Can you describe it?”

  Mary clenched her jaw to keep from screaming at him. Must he continue with this charade? “No matter; I’ll hunt for it later. More important is my leather correspondence portfolio. I placed it in my trunk before I left home, but it’s missing now.”

  “No, I have not seen it. Are you certain you have not misplaced it?”

  She winced and rubbed her bruised head. “At this rate I am not sure of anything. Would you mind helping me look for it? After you are finished with the repairs, of course.”

  “I will be with you as soon as we get this wheel straightened.” He shifted the tool in his hand, and she heard a cracking sound. “There. Now it’s set for the blacksmith.” He sat back on his heels and wiped a bead of sweat off his nose.

  Mary shaded her eyes against the glaring sun. “That may not be long. A wagon is approaching.”

  “That will be Dwayne Smith, the blacksmith.”

  The cart rolled to a stop and an enormous, bearded black man jumped down from the driver’s seat. “Mister Townsend, Lady Mary, it is nice to see you again, though not under these conditions.”

  “Good afternoon, Dwayne. You will have your hands full with this wheel, I’m afraid.”

  The blacksmith looked at the carriage and the wheel. “Since you straightened it, Mister Townsend, I don’t think it will take much time. You’ve done the biggest job. Mr. Peter recommends you and Lady Mary head on up to the house in the wagon while Ned and I repair this.” He unloaded the tools on to the ground next to the broken wheel.

  “An excellent idea. Lady Mary needs rest after the accident. She took several nasty blows to her head.” Robert walked to the carriage door and pulled out a small trunk. On top he placed a leather case that looked identical to Mary’s portfolio, except it was new. Mary added her dress and panniers atop his portfolio, then followed him to the rear of the wagon, where he set everything on a clean canvas tarp.

  Mary said nothing, but the appearance of the case sent prickles up her back. Could there be two?

  Robert shrugged into his shirt and coat, retied his queue, and then put on his glasses and tricorne hat. He brushed off the dried grass that clung to the front of his breeches.

  Dwayne pulled the last of the tools from the back of the wagon. “She’s all yours, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Robert turned to her. “Shall we go, dearest?”

  “Yes, please. I’ve had enough adventure for the day. She took Robert’s arm. Beneath his coat she felt his muscular strength. When he led her to the wagon and gave her a boost into the seat, she almost swooned. She had always battled the pounds, but he lifted her as if she weighed nothing, then he vaulted into the driver’s seat. Concentrate, idiot. Don’t go all girlie now.

  “Thank you for rescuing us, Dwayne,” she called.

  “No bother at all, my Lady.” He bowed and waited until Robert snapped the reins over the horse. Only then did he move toward Ned and the coach.

  Once underway, Mary took advantage of her time alone with Robert. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  “No. We must be able to talk to one another, or our marriage will be very difficult, indeed.”

  “Yes. About our marriage… I feel we hardly know one another.”

  “That is simple nervousness, no doubt. We have known one another since childhood, and our parents have always expected us to wed.”

  “It’s odd, I don’t feel I belong here. Everything is different from what I remember. Would you think me awfully foolish if I asked you today’s date?”

  He frowned. “It is not foolish at all. You took a blow to the head; confusion is to be expected. Today is September 20, 1780.”

  Mary’s heart jumped, and she inhaled slowly to calm herself. Her stays made it difficult to take a deep breath. “Would you believe, the date is correct, but for me the year is two-hundred-some years in the future?”

  Robert patted her hand with a laugh. “You always told me you enjoyed the company of older men. That would make me just about the correct age for you.”

  “I’m not joking. I wish I were. You have no idea how frightened I am right now. I don’t have any co
ncept of how I got here, and I have even less of how I can get home.” She quashed the crazy urge to laugh that bubbled in in her throat; laughing would make her look totally insane. No, she must remain in control, or he would never believe her.

  “I’ll ask a physician to check you, when we get to my cousin’s home. This confusion must be related…”

  “No confusion. I am dead serious. I can prove it if you won’t take my word for it.”

  “How so?” Robert slowed the horse to a trot.

  Mary racked her brain. If she had gone back in Time, what could she say that would not change history? After a long minute, she decided. “Robert, would you be kind enough to tell me about myself?”

  “What is this foolishness?” His tone gave away his growing impatience.

  “Humor me.”

  “You were born on May 23, twenty-six years ago in Nova Scotia, but your parents settled in Oyster Bay when you were a child. Of course, I always thought you were the prettiest girl in Oyster Bay—all blonde curls and big blue eyes.”

  Though tempted to laugh at his blatant flattery, she continued. “Education?”

  “As suitable for a young lady of your elevated status: music, poetry, embroidery, some numbers, and reading. And, of course, how to oversee a home, as well as to care for your husband and children.”

  “In other words, minimal formal education, as appropriate for gentlewomen of the day. You must be bored senseless with the endless chatter about fashions and the latest gossip.”

  “I look forward to our marriage.”

  “Ah, a diplomat.” She smiled. “Fine. Here is another question. What happens when the sex gets old?”

  “Mary, I’ve never heard you speak in such a manner.”

  “That is because I am not your Mary.” She bounced on the seat in frustration. “I may look like her, and I may sound like her, but we are very different people. True, my name is Mary Banvard. But I was born on May 23, 1989. I am a doctoral candidate in History, specializing in the American Colonial Period. I’m the interim curator of a small museum in Oyster Bay, New York. You called it the Homestead.”

  “That is ridiculous. Nineteen-eighty-nine? More than two hundred years in the future? That bump on your head did more damage than I expected. Furthermore, the Homestead is my home when I am in Oyster Bay, not a museum. How is this proof of anything?”

  “Please let me finish. In your time you called it the Homestead, but in the twenty-first century, we know it as Raynham Hall. I must be careful what I say to you for fear of changing history.” She cleared her throat, then closed her eyes. What she would give for a bottle of spring water right now, or one of those iced teas in her cooler. No, make that a strawberry margarita—maybe two. “What color are my eyes?”

  He kept his eyes to the front, watching the road. “Blue, as I’ve said. Why are you asking such odd questions, my dear?”

  “Because my eyes are dark brown with a pale gray ring around the irises. See?” She widened her eyes and pulled up her eyelid. “Something tells me you are not paying much attention to your intended.”

  He glared at her, though he made no comment. A crease appeared on his forehead above his nose.

  She could not guess if he looked unhappy due to her peculiar behavior, or due to what she was telling him. No matter. She had to force him to believe her, so there was no choice but to drop The Big One. “Here’s one last question.” She lowered her voice, though no one could hear them. “How many people know you’ve been a spy for General Washington since June of last year?”

  All the color drained from his face. He reined in the horse and clutched her upper arms. “Do not jest that way, Mary. I could hang if someone overhears you.”

  “You must listen to me, Robert. I believe I’ve been sent back to this date and time. There must be a reason.”

  “How do I know you are not a Loyalist agent?”

  “Because, unlike your Lady Mary, I’m an American, born and bred in Oyster Bay, Long Island, New York. I’d be a fool to want the Colonists to lose this war. I love my country, and I sure as hell don’t want it to end before it starts. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve accomplished in two hundred forty-one years.” She grinned. “I can’t give you many details, but the country now extends far from the Atlantic seaboard, we have made unbelievable advances in medicine, and the moon is definitely not made of green cheese. Of course, there is a lot more, but I don’t know what might be the thing you shouldn’t know.”

  “The country is two hundred and forty-one years old. Dear Lord. How is it possible?

  “It’s no more farfetched than me traveling through Time to be here with you.”

  “How do you know all this? Why should what you say mean anything to me?”

  “Because you are an agent in the service of George Washington, not the Loyalist you pretend to be. You receive and transmit information via your dry goods business in New York City. My guess is your Mary is a loyal British subject, a Tory. She’d be horrified to discover your true feelings toward independence. Perhaps she’s the type who would turn you in—now there’s a great foundation for wedded bliss. Nothing like a fat reward to buy her a trunk full of new shoes and hats while you swing in the breeze.”

  Robert said nothing, so Mary steamed ahead.

  “You can choose to ignore what I’ve said. I don’t know what will happen if you do. Perhaps it will change history, and the Brits will win the war. If you thought things were bad before independence was declared, life in the Colonies will only get worse if they triumph. Can you say ‘taxation without representation’? Or ‘quartering troops in your home’? Those will be the soldiers in red, for your information.”

  “Indeed. That is part of what we are battling. ’Twas not enough for Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe to order his Queen’s Rangers to raze our family’s apple orchard, and use the wood to rebuild the old Oyster Bay fort. He and his officers further insulted our family by staying quartered at the Homestead for six everlasting months. The experience nearly killed my father. I cannot find it in my heart to forgive Simcoe for his depredations, though we Townsends had the last laugh. Up until January, Simcoe was literally chained in a jail cell, courtesy of the New Jersey Colonial militia.”

  She nodded. “History paints John Simcoe as a bona fide bastard during the occupation of Oyster Bay.” What she did not tell him, was the same John Simcoe became a hero in Canada after he departed from the infant United States. “So, what are we waiting for? The answer to our questions could be at your cousin’s home.”

  Robert chucked the reins. “Then we shall discover it together.”

  Chapter Four

  A heavy-set middle-aged man in a powdered wig ran to the wagon as it pulled up the driveway to the house. “Welcome, welcome, both of you. I regret you had such trials in reaching us, but here you are at last.” As soon as Robert disembarked from the wagon, the man grabbed Robert in a bear hug.

  “Thank you for the enthusiastic welcome, Cousin Peter. We are looking forward to our stay.” Robert assisted her from the seat. “You remember my fiancée, Lady Mary Banvard.”

  “Yes, of course. Welcome, Lady Mary. I am sure you would appreciate a rest before supper.”

  “That would be wonderful. I’m afraid I am quite a wreck, and I’d like to change, as well.”

  “I will send a servant up to help you.”

  “Perfect. You have my gratitude.” Mary’s headache began to fade as she relaxed under Peter’s kindness.

  “I’m afraid you two will be sharing a room all week long.” Peter hurried on to say. “We have so many guests arriving, there are not enough beds unless we double up the couples. I believe it will not be an issue, since you are betrothed.”

  Robert flushed, embarrassed, but shrugged. “A bundling board will solve any problem, Cousin Peter.”

  “It is in the room already, Robert.”

  Mary smiled at Peter and took Robert’s arm, trying to keep her weight off her ankle. “We certainly do not wish to cause you a p
roblem, Peter; we will be fine.” Will Robert be shaken by her twenty-first century attitudes?

  “Excellent. Please follow me. It is times like this that I miss my Hannah the most, God rest her soul.” A momentary flash of sadness passed over his face. “I never realized how much work my wife did until she passed away.”

  “Most of our things remain in the damaged carriage, Peter.”

  “Everything will be sent to your room when it arrives, Robert. If it takes too long to repair the coach, I’ll send someone to retrieve your luggage. In the meantime, rest. You’ve had quite a day.”

  Peter led them through the house, up a steep flight of stairs to the corridor and the last door on the right. “I hope you will find the chamber comfortable. The window has quite an attractive view of the early autumn garden. I will send up one of the girls with hot water and a robe for you, Lady Mary. If you wish, she can take the gown you are wearing and try to clean it.”

  “Thank you, Peter. I would be most appreciative, but I wonder if it’s a total loss.”

  “Tillie does wonders with laundry. Sometimes I think she uses a magic potion.” He bowed to her and Robert. “Supper will be at seven, but the other guests will begin to arrive at five o’ the clock.”

  “Then we will see you at five.” Robert bowed to his cousin and shut the door quietly. He listened to Peter’s retreating footsteps and turned to Mary. “I am nearly convinced. You are definitely not my Mary.”

  She chuckled. “That was sudden. What made you an almost-believer, Robert?”

  “Any number of things. You did not complain about the accident, or the condition of your gown, or the fact your luggage is not here, or how inconvenient it is to share a room with me.”

  “I can practice whining if you’d like.”

  He raised his hands, palms up. “Please don’t. That is one of the many things about her that drives me mad.”

  “Reciting a litany of your betrothed’s faults sounds like a poor start to a marriage.” Mary peered into the mirror hung over the dresser and made a face at her reflection. She touched the cut near her hairline and her bruised cheek. I’m a disaster.