There was no point in telling anyone about her adventures in the past, and certainly not about her pregnancy. It would be an invitation for a stint in a padded room. Some bureaucrat would declare her an unfit mother and take her baby. No. Let them think the worst. I know the truth. She trudged up the steep and narrow staircase. She threw her bag lunch in the mini-fridge in her office and began sorting through the messages and letters left for her by the Historical Society Volunteers. Since she came back to work she appreciated their help more than ever.
There was nothing pressing, so she headed downstairs. Christmas would be here in a flash, and she wanted to take a look at how far the volunteers had gotten on digging more decorations from the attic yesterday afternoon. As if she really felt like celebrating the holidays. Bah, Humbug.
Halfway down the staircase, she noticed a framed engraving of Robert’s cousin, Peter. Funny, I don’t remember seeing that picture before. She read the caption.
Peter Townsend
Owner of the Stirling Iron Works
Manufacturer of the great chain
that crossed the Hudson River
during the American War for Independence
She wandered around the first floor, checked the locks on the windows and doors. When she reached the cook’s bedchamber near the kitchen, she noticed her Revolutionary War storage trunk in a corner. When did that get here? She hadn’t seen it since the accident in September.
Mary tugged on the lid. Locked. She pulled out her keys from her jeans pocket, fumbled for the right one, and twisted it in the lock. The strap popped open. Kneeling on the rug, she pushed up the lid.
Atop her neatly packed Colonial clothing sat a paper addressed in Robert’s archaic script: Mary Banvard Townsend. She stared at the paper; her hands shook when she unfolded it.
Dearest Mary,
My beloved wife, please return to me. I love you and need you.
Your Loving Husband,
Robert
At the bottom of the paper was a cipher that they had concocted on the night they worked on the encrypted letter.
I love you, 355.
She leaned against the open trunk and hugged the paper to her heart. Great heaving sobs pulled from her gut, nearly rending her in two. Finally, all cried out, Mary pulled a quilt from the bed, lay down next to the trunk and slept, still clutching the letter.
****
By the time Mary woke, the electric timer had lit the small light in the hallway outside the cook’s room. The darkness outside crept through the curtained windows, giving her an eerie feeling of being watched. She sat up and caught the distinctive aroma of sandalwood.
“Robert?” A white vapor-like shape coalesced into the vague shape of a man. “Please, Robert, show me what to do, how to return to you. We are having a child. I want the baby to know his father.”
The shape drifted across the floor and out the door.
Mary scrambled to her feet and padded after it through the dining room and into the parlor. There she pulled the heavy drapes open to allow the lone streetlight to illuminate the room as best they could. The shadowed furniture blended into the walls and corners of the room.
The scent of sandalwood heralded the fog-like mist merging by the fireplace. A ghostly hand drifted upward to point at the framed picture above the mantel, the picture she had reframed, which started her journey to Robert’s arms.
“Robert?” Mary ran to the light switch, and then stopped dead. What if he disappeared as soon as she flicked on a lamp? How can I keep him here? She spied a pewter candlestick on the mantel and the matches next to it. Despite the tremor of her perspiring hands, the flame flickered within moments. The apparition glided close to her and pointed again to the painting. She raised the holder, and the candle flared, illuminating the painting for a moment. Her shock loosened her grip on the candleholder, but as it slipped, she grabbed it tightly and held it toward the painting.
How can this be real? Her eyes burned with a wash of tears as she stared at the portrait she had never seen. It showed Robert holding a paper. A boy of about four-years-old sat on the lap of a brown-eyed woman wearing an elegant lace-trimmed floral gown and holding a quill pen in her left hand. Recognition took but a heartbeat. “Dear Lord, I made it back to him,” she whispered.
The ghost seemed to nod and gestured to the frame. The engraved brass plate at the bottom edge of the frame read:
Robert Townsend, Patriot and Spy,
His wife, Mary Banvard Townsend, Patriot and Author,
Their son, Robert Townsend, Junior
The letter held by Robert showed their secret cipher:
I love you, Agent 355.
“I love you, too, Robert. Somehow I will return to you. Please wait for me,” Mary said.
A draft spilled from the fireplace, and the spirit disappeared in a breeze-born trail of sandalwood.
Chapter Twelve
November 25, Present Day
Mary woke late on Thanksgiving morning and stared at the electric clock on her bedside table. Nine o’clock. She closed her eyes and burrowed into the covers to escape life for a bit longer, but her mind raced.
She no longer felt content in the modern world. For the last week, since meeting Robert’s ghost, she’d spent every waking moment in seeking a method to travel back in time. She alternately prayed for a miracle and cursed her efforts as foolishness. It couldn’t be all in her head, she thought, running her hand over the subtle rounding of her tummy. Nope. No figment of my imagination here.
She sat up and grabbed her well-thumbed hardcover of her favorite Scottish time-travel novel from the table beside her bed. The words swam before her eyes, and she repeatedly drifted from the story and back to her own plight. The standing stones won’t work to get her home to Robert, nor did she have a starship to throw her back through time.
Perhaps if she plowed into something with her car, or got shot again. No. I can’t risk the baby.
Feeling sorry for herself won’t do any good. She stretched to shake off her melancholy, then showered and dressed. After breakfast she threw a load of healthy snacks into her lunch bag, filled her travel mug with decaf tea, and stuffed a few extra power bars into her sweater pockets, just in case. She grabbed a jacket from the coat tree in the hallway and set the straps of her lunch bag and purse on her shoulder. Jingling her keys to see if they were in her pocket, she left the house. The click of the automatic front door lock reached her before she opened her gate. Once there, she watched the crazy dentist next door pull his antique, navy blue Saab out of the driveway. She waved hello, but he sped past in a hail of gravel and dust without returning her greeting. Be that way, Doctor Warmth.
In the morning silence of Thanksgiving Day, it felt as if the entire town was deserted. The shop doors were closed, and not a dog, cat, or car was to be seen. That Thursday most people on Long Island were prepping for the celebration with family and friends. She couldn’t bear to be with people today, knowing she would be lousy company. A frozen organic turkey dinner—‘Complete with Cranberries and Dessert on the same microwave-safe plate’, according to the box—awaited her whenever she felt hungry.
Snow flurries spun around her head, landing on her nose and lashes. She stuck out her tongue and caught some, just as she had done as a child. The pinpricks of cold tasted refreshing, and she inhaled deeply to clear her head. No more moping. Longing for Robert would not bring her back to him. “Somehow you and I will get back to your daddy, where we belong, Robby,” she whispered. Touching the place on her abdomen where he grew, everything seemed so much more concrete. Though she was still in the first trimester, the doctor told her he thought the sonogram showed she was carrying a baby boy. Robert Townsend, Junior. A thrill of happiness warmed her heart.
Since returning to work, Mary had thrown herself into the preparations for the holidays. Finding the note in the trunk and the engraved plate on the family painting planted seeds of hope in her heart, but seeing Robert’s ghost caused the seeds to blossom.
She vowed not to become a Scrooge. Though heart-sore, without close family and with worries of a coming child, she determinedly forced herself to prepare for the festivities with the same cheerful enthusiasm as she had in past years.
Not a bit of plastic-y commercial stuff was ever used to deck Raynham’s halls. The decorations, researched and reproduced from period sketches, paintings and written descriptions, were homemade. It brought up Mary’s spirits to work beside the volunteers and staff, twisting garlands and wiring berries across doorways. And what a glorious sight! And the smells!
Looped swags of fir and holly edged the mantelpiece. On each side of the mantel, bayberry-scented green candles set into drilled birch logs made marvelous candelabras. A wreath of pine boughs, pinecones, and dried fruit graced the front gate, and festive holly and ivy garland draped the doorway of the museum. Even the mistletoe hanging from pine swags over every doorway was real, looking for a willing purveyor of a kiss or two.
The public Revolutionary War Yule event would be held at the Hall on the weekend before Christmas. Over lunch one day at a local diner, Gail Rosevear, her dear friend and the current leader of the re-enactment group, insisted Mary portray the Colonial-era Mary Banvard for the event. “After all, girlfriend, who else knows more about her? You resemble her, and you have her name, for Pete’s sake. Your Master’s thesis is on Robert Townsend, so you are our resident expert on what little is known about the woman. Anyway, have you caught the way Jack Gibbons looks at you? The man is pure lust. With him portraying Robert and you as Mary, the casting would be perfect.” The irony of the entire situation was not lost on Mary. Though she and Jack had dated in the past, she chafed at the thought of anyone playing Robert other than Robert himself. Unfortunately, he’s not available at the moment.
She needed to immerse herself in a depression-discourager for the better part of Thanksgiving Day. Being useful seemed a far better option than burying herself in her room. TV presented her another alternative: mind-numbing, commercial-filled, all-day, holiday movie extravaganzas. I’d rather drill my own teeth.
The over-processed turkey-dinner-in-a-box was her best option; it was one of the few meals she had in her freezer. The local restaurants were all closed. She recalled the invitations she had turned down as she bit into one of the granola bars she’d taken from her kitchen stash. Happy Turkey Day to me.
Unlocking the door, she flicked on a few lights to chase away the overcast day and climbed the stairs to her office. She settled into her chair and clicked the mouse; the computer awakened from sleep. Her to-do list for the week was sparse. Most people were away for the long weekend.
As Mary worked, her mind strayed back to the Colonial Mary Banvard. Did she take my place, as I took hers? What happened to her when I was with Robert? Was she in a coma? No doubt the poor woman was terrified to find herself in the twenty-first century. Did she feel like she’d gone mad? Had some unknown Good Samaritan helped her? Did she return to Colonial Oyster Bay and Robert, when Mary recovered in the hospital? Jealousy ripped through Mary’s heart, but she quashed her envy. If not for the existence of Colonial Mary, Robert and I would never have met.
She had no answers but certainly no lack of questions. To ease a building headache, she rubbed her temples, stretched, and walked to the window for some air.
Snow swirled and collected on the panes as she watched, giving the scenery the look of a fairy tale landscape. Several inches of snow coated the leafless trees and the late autumn plantings. The fir garland draped between the newel posts of the picket fence leading to the barn, blended into the white of the fence. The roofs of the outbuildings shone, easing the darkness.
She opened the window and took a great gulp of air into her lungs. The snowflakes swirling and twirling through the opening brought the sound of the church bells from Christ Church on East Main Street. Shocked, she checked her watch. How did it get to be midnight? Had she dozed off? She slammed down the windowpane and locked it.
A white flash reflecting in the glass caught her eye as a hint of sandalwood wafted into the room. She turned, and her breath caught in her lungs. The wispy form she had seen once before drifted beyond her office doorway. She blinked to clear her vision. “Robert? Sweetheart?” Who else would it be? Her heart squeezed in her chest as her hope rose. Did he know a way for her to return? She kept the spirit in sight and followed it into the hallway. She again caught the distinct scent she associated with Robert.
The silent phantom hovered in the half-light and wafted through the corridor. It stopped about midway down, in front of the bathroom’s narrow door. It still stood—or rather, floated—within arms-length from her. Was she imagining it, or did it gesture to the door, encouraging her to open it?
Her inner voice was already shouting at her. Open the door already. Doesn’t the baby deserve a father as well as a mother? The picture on the wall in the parlor flashed into her mind. The three of them together—a family. Mary cocked her head, listening for a word or a sound from the spirit, but only her own breathing broke the silence. Unease fought with her need to return, and goosebumps lifted the hairs on her arms. Fear made her stomach clench, and her tongue tasted of bile. Finally, her yearning for Robert overpowered her fears. She needed to get back to the man she loved. She twisted the knob and yanked open the door.
Chapter Thirteen
“What the hell?” The corridor magnified her shout and echoed her shocked surprise. Instead of the familiar white porcelain bathroom fixtures, the treads of a gray-painted wooden staircase, its bottom obscured by the darkness, descended before her. “Robert, there was a bathroom here this morning.” She knew this house like her own palm, or so she thought. Obviously, the engraving of Peter and the picture in the parlor below were not the only things which had changed. Familiar old Raynham Hall suddenly felt as alien to her as an intergalactic space ship. She shivered from both the chill and her own misgivings, when a rush of cool, sandalwood-scented air enveloped her. “Sweetheart, why are you telling me to go down there? If this staircase goes down to the basement, there’s nothing there but dusty old furniture and spiders.”
No answer.
“OK, fine. But I need a few things. Whatever you do, don’t move.”
Returning to her office, Mary grabbed a flashlight, her purse and her cell phone, and then she dumped an entire box of chocolate-covered power bars into her purse. At the last second, she grabbed an armful of books on the history of the American Revolution, the founding of the Republic, and an excellent, comprehensive history of the United States through to the twenty-first century, shoved them into a roomy leather tote, and ran back to the open door. She aimed the flashlight beam down the stairs.
She hesitated, arguing for and against descending the mysterious staircase.
The phantom pointed down the stairs.
“Down, huh? Well, here I go. You had better be there to catch me if this staircase disappears.” She grasped the hand railing and stepped down. On the sixth step, she looked back. The phantom and its scent vanished, leaving her with only her flashlight for companionship. “Thanks a bunch for waiting, Robert. What was so important that you had to leave?” she called up to where the spirit had stood.
She was losing it. Her heartbeat accelerated as she looked down the stairway. “Okay, take a breath and calm down. This is no big deal. Raynham Hall has an exit door and plenty of florescent lighting in the cellar. A little voice in her head whispered. Unless those are changed, too.
The railing shook under the pressure of Mary’s hand. Damn. One more expense for the museum’s tight budget. She would have to call a carpenter to repair it next week. The last thing she needed was someone taking a header off these unfamiliar steps. But nothing in Raynham Hall was unfamiliar. She had spent almost her entire life in and around the house. Why don’t I remember this stairway? Was it simply one of the memories lost after her car accident? The perfume of sandalwood again drifted around her, soothing her. She relaxed and descended once more. Could the spirit-Robert re
ad her tangled thoughts?
She made it down a dozen more steps when her flashlight flickered and failed. Whacking it against her palm, it relit, but the beam glowed weakly. Refusing to be denied an answer to her questions, her curiosity egged her onward and downward.
“Robert, are you still here?” Wherever here is.
Holding on to the rail, she kept moving, one step, and then another. Down, down, down. Walking into the heart of the house, she felt no fear. The steps changed from painted wood to plain boards to crude lumber. The last time she had taken such a steep descent was at a Metro station in Washington D.C. Did this staircase lead to an old outbuilding? A tunnel? The center of the Earth?
Mary glanced back at the top of the staircase. The feeble flashlight beam failed to reach the door masked in shadows. Misgivings coursed through her again. “Robert, do I keep going, or go back?” Her voice rebounded through the space, sharp to her own ears. The sandalwood aroma reached her once more. Keep going.
She reached the bottom of the staircase and swept the flashlight around the cellar. Nothing looked familiar. No wiring or light fixtures showed in the shaft of light.
Dusty wine barrels lay stacked in a corner, waiting to be filled and tapped. Three undamaged Windsor chairs surrounded a table holding a broken, three-legged chair. Peeking out from a swath of dust covers, a blue-striped sofa stood against a beautiful old desk. She dropped her purse and the bag of books on the sofa and shook her hand to regain the circulation.
After a few minutes she began exploring once again. In the back section of the basement, the space was cut into small rooms. An antique laundry held huge oak half-barrels for boiling linens and washing clothes. Crocks and bottles filled dusty pantry shelves. Chests and wooden crates filled another space. Household detritus lined the top of a table: candles, a half-dozen chamberstick candleholders some missing their glass chimneys, and several cast iron pots and pans. A couple of small, rolled-up rag rugs lay across the lid of a trunk, but she saw no door to the outside. It’s got to be here somewhere.
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