Lavender Dreaming: A Time Travel Romance (Lavender, Texas Series Book 5)

by Barbara Bartholomew

  She’d never limped in her dreams and so he supposed she’d hurt her ankle during the bombing last night in London.

  Now his heart ached for her as he watched her approach the woman on the bed. She’d rarely mentioned specifically any of the people she worked with and for in the big London house, but he supposed that since she seemed to have no other relatives, those people were like family to her. This had to be enormously painful for her to see the broken woman in the narrow hospital bed.

  She was probably like a grandmother to poor little Violet, who stood straight and tall as she could with her limited inches, somehow almost shedding her limp at she let go of his hand and went closer to the bed.

  “Lady Laura,” she whispered softly. “It’s Violet.”

  The woman lay with her eyes closed, not stirring. He suspected she was unconscious and near death. Dr. Evan had said it was the head injury that was too much for her aged frame and that all the efforts he and his wife made had seemed to be in vain.

  “She may not respond, Violet,” Dr. Cynthia said softly, “but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know you’re here. Yours is the only voice that will be familiar to her so just keep talking.”

  Violet gave a jerky nod, but didn’t say anything. “This has to be disconcerting to her,” Dr. Evan added, “to be surrounded with strangers when she’s injured.”

  Doc had an understated style, Warne thought, but he hoped that his deep voice was as reassuring to Violet in this time of trouble as it had been to him many times before.

  When Violet finally did speak again, her voice was tremulous. “Lady Laura,” she said, “The house was bombed and you were hurt, but we’re here now with the doctors and they’re taking care of you.”

  The woman on the bed barely moved one hand.

  “Keep talking,” Cynthia said softly. “She hears you.”

  Warne who knew her so well could tell that Violet didn’t want to obey, didn’t want to say another word. She wanted to run away, but being stubborn little Violet, she stayed in place.

  “You do what feels right to you,” he said and his own voice didn’t sound quite right either. Poor kid, she’d had such a rough life. He hated to see her go through this. For an instant he allowed himself to entertain the idea of Violet staying here in healing Lavender, far from the horror of wartime England.

  But he hadn’t brought her here and didn’t know how to keep her here.

  “Laura,” she started talking again, her voice hesitant and uncertain. “Don’t worry. These two doctors will take good care of you . . .”

  Thin eyelashes lifted and nearly colorless eyes looked up at her. “You know I don’t approve of informality, girl,” she snapped.

  Violet ducked her head in a parody of a courtesy. “Sorry, my lady. “

  Cynthia stepped in, placing her hand protectively on Violet’s shoulder. “You’ve been injured, Laura,” she said as though talking to a hurt child. “We’re doing our best to help you.”

  “My name is Laura Smythe-Hatton. You may address me as Lady Laura.”

  Cynthia didn’t say anything, but with something almost like amusement Warne saw her touch on Violet tighten. Cynthia Stephens was a transplant from modern America where class consciousness of this sort was unknown. Warne guessed she wanted to wade in and tell her patient that there wouldn’t be any of this ladyship business here, but restrained herself only from fear of setting off a woman who might do damage to herself. Usually Cynthia was a calm, restrained person, but right now she was about to boil over, not because of the attitude toward herself, but because a woman young enough to be her daughter was being treated discourteously.

  “Please tell me,” Lady Laura demanded of her. “Am I dying?”

  “As my wife said, we are doing our best to care for you,” Evan Stephens said quietly in his deep voice. Usually Evan had a calming effect on a sick room, but Lady Laura was having none of it.

  She kept her gaze fixed on Cynthia’s face, her own visage so pale and shrunken that except for the bright intelligence of those light eyes, she looked already dead. “Am I dying?” she asked.

  Cynthia considered for a moment. “Your condition is very serious.”

  “Am I dying?” Lady Laura repeated firmly.

  Cynthia nodded.

  “Then please leave me, all of you. I need to talk privately with my maid.”

  Warne saw Violet’s slight body quiver.

  Violet wished for a minute that she could flee with the rest of them as Cynthia led them from the room, leaving her alone at Lady Laura’s request. She drew comfort though when Warne only stepped to the edge of the room and didn’t follow the others. He was here with her so she wasn’t abandoned with the old woman who had recently been the bane of her life.

  Other children might fear bogeymen. In the same way Violet had been afraid of Lady Laura, a distant but imposing figure, hovering on the edge of her life outside the kitchen area where she worked, as high as an angel above her ordinary existence, but without an angel’s supposed personality of caring goodness.

  She couldn’t imagine what Lady Laura could have to say to the kitchen maid she’d hardly noticed until reduced to such circumstance that scorn for her was the only possible emotion expressed.

  The shrunken figure on the bed stirred slightly. She’d heard that Lady Laura had once been considered a great beauty, but little of that evidenced now. She looked more like a broken doll collapsed against the sheet, but the fierce eyes dared Violet to feel sorry for her.

  “Bend closer,” she commanded. “They might be listening at the door.”

  As though anyone in Lavender, Texas cared about any ancient secrets Lady Laura might possess. Still the habit of obedience had long been ground into her so she did as instructed, hobbling close to the bed.

  “Where have they taken us?”

  Violet hardly knew how to answer the urgent question. She didn’t know who ‘they’ might be, nor did she have any idea how they’d been transported to Warne’s little town so far from the place where they’d been bombed.

  She gave the simplest answer possible. “Lavender, Texas.”

  She expected, at the very least, to be accused of lying. To her surprise, the old woman blinked twice. “So he did it,” she said. “Weird genius that they said he was.”

  “Who did what?” Violet asked in bewilderment. Then, thinking quickly, she reminded herself that this badly hurt old woman was probably far from in her right mind. Whatever she said would make little sense. That was only to be expected. Still she didn’t know what to say. “Lavender, Texas,” she said again.

  “His town. Tyler’s town.” Lady Laura’s voice seemed to be softer as though she were drifting away. She raised a hand to grasp for Violet, who took it in her own. “You’re the only one I can tell. The cook is likely dead and Margaret Is too hysterical to be a confidant . .. besides what would she do.”

  The high-toned accent that Violet both admired and resented resounded as firmly as ever even though Lady Laura was obviously struggling against encroaching shadows. She found comfort from the knowledge that she wasn’t left to herself at this moment, but that Warne stood unseen behind her.

  The grip on her hand tightened painfully. “Swear to me, Violet James, that you will go back and make things right. Swear!”

  This was beyond understanding. “Go back where?” she asked.

  “To the house, of course.”

  “The house in London?” No sense bothering the old woman by telling her that building was likely bombed out of existence.”

  “To the house where Tyler came. If you don’t go and see to things, then everything he created will come tumbling down, even this miserable little community. All of his life’s work will be gone. Swear,” she demanded once again.

  She gasped for breath, the sound rattling deep in her throat, and in horror Violet knew this was what it was like to die. Well, what could it hurt to stretch the truth to save a dying woman’s feelings? “I’ll do what you want,” she sa
id. What the harm in making an impossible promise to a delusional woman in her last minutes?

  A look of incredible relief came into the old face. “I will make atonement in a way,” she said nonsensically. Then she gasped again, not seeming to breathe at all, until she drew in a long gulp of air. “I won’t ask your forgiveness, Violet James, for I know you would never give it. I can only hope that God will have pity.”

  Her eyes closed and for an instant Violet thought she was dead, but then saw the faint flutter of her chest and realized that Lady Laura, having said what she intended, had dismissed her.

  She felt Warne coming up behind her and stepped gratefully into the encirclement of his arm, leaning against him as he led her from the room.

  Dr. Cynthia waited just outside and when Warne shook his head, she went immediately to her patient. Numb with fatigue, Violet walked with Warne toward the stairs, standing silently within his arms for long moments before finally finding strength to go on up the stairs and find the room that had been allotted to her.

  She gave no more than a second’s thought to the promise Lady Laura had exacted from her before going to sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Betsy wakened with a slight feeling of guilt. Poor little Violet so unexpectedly translated into another place and time and her friend on the brink of death and she, Betsy, had gone to help Dottie clean up the abandoned meal in dining room and kitchen, only returning to be told by Warne that Violet had gone up to bed.

  Torn between whether to go offer comfort to the visitor or to retreat to check her own youngsters in their beds, she had weakly chosen the happier option and after kissing their sleeping faces had gone to her own bed.

  Having spent few nights away from her husband since the early days of their marriage, she missed his presence at her side and lay awake, remembering her own first puzzled days in Lavender. Of course, she’d only been a little girl when her mother brought her here, but Mom and Papa Evan had done their best to help her learn her way and eventually she’d found a new family in the Stephens.

  She saw little hope of any such blessing in the English girl’s life. For one thing she was a plain little thing, somewhat crippled and very young. She didn’t look to be much older than her younger sister, Sylvie, who was celebrating her fifteenth birthday.

  And she’d just lived through a bombing and all the horror of London during the second world war. Of those currently living in Lavender only Betsy and her mother, born long after that event, had any idea what that experience must have been like.

  She didn’t even think of Warne when she was trying to plan a future for Violet. That big, gentle grizzly bear of a young man wasn’t right at all for Violet, not the way Betsy saw things. Warne deserved an easier life than the one the English girl would give him.

  And as an afterthought, she added that obviously there was a man out there who would be right for Violet.

  He wanted to be the one to tell her. He thought it would be easier for her that way, but he hadn’t counted on her friend Margaret being present when Violet came downstairs, dressed in a dress obviously meant for a taller girl, probably Sylvie, her dark hair hanging limp and straight, and her face so pale that the freckles that lightly sprinkled her nose stood out in sharp relief as though they’d been pasted on to her delicate face.

  Margaret didn’t give him a chance to break the news gently. “Oh, Violet love, we’re all alone in this strange place since we lost Lady Laura last night. Oh, woe! All we have is each other.”

  She crushed Violet against her plump body and began to sob again. It seemed to Warne that she’d been crying ever since she got here, though he supposed he couldn’t blame her much considering what all she’d been through. Still he gave credit to Violet who had stayed composed through everything, even the painful last meeting with her employer last night.

  With obvious restraint Violet disentangled herself from what was clearly an unwanted embrace. “Somehow I thought she would pull through. Lady Laura seemed the type to fight off death itself.”

  She sounded surprisingly unemotional, as though someone she’d known only casually had passed away. And yet the old woman had asked to see her on her deathbed. He told himself she was in shock. She’d hadn’t taken it in yet.

  He tried to step between her and Margaret, which wasn’t easy as the older woman clung to the younger, as though Violet should look after her.

  Betsy came down the stairs then, her small daughter in her arms and her son hanging on to her skirt. “Violet,” she said, then nodded to the other woman. “Margaret. Papa told me. I’m so sorry.”

  Tears ran down Margaret’s face at this encouragement, but thankfully didn’t sob out loud this time. The little girl in Betsy’s arms looked alarmed. “What’s wrong with that lady?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, love, I’ve done gone and lost my best friend.” Her accent was such that Warne could barely make out what she was saying and little Ben looked even more puzzled.

  Betsy took the two women into care, telling Warne to go look after his duties. They were headed toward the kitchen in the back of the house, Violet looking at him as though she’d been abandoned, but with considerable reluctance he minded Betsy and headed downtown to check out how much damage had been done to Forrest’s store.

  Surprisingly Margaret managed to put away a considerable breakfast of fried ham and eggs with biscuits and homemade jam, though she complained that Texans didn’t know how to make tea.

  Considering that both eggs and meat of any kind had been in short supply in war-torn England, Violet knew she should make the most of the meal, but somehow she couldn’t eat anything but part of a biscuit spread with real butter and apricot jam. The tea did taste funny, but she remembered Warne telling her that many items were in short supply in little Lavender. She supposed it was because they had to go a long way to bring in supplies. Texas was wild frontier, wasn’t it?

  After all the things that had happened; the second bomb collapsing into the house where she’d lived most of her life, Lady Laura dying . . . How was she going to explain any of it to the Downings?

  She remembered that none of them were likely to find her here in Warne’s town. When crossing the ocean was such a hazardous thing these days with submarines prowling the Atlantic, she was safe enough from the family and any concern they might have about their late relative. She almost laughed at the thought. She would have felt badly if any of them really cared about the old lady, but it had been clear to everybody that Lady Laura commanded the loyalty of her family because she was so wealthy and most of them, though possessed of honored names, didn’t have a shilling of their own.

  The house in London, the country estate and all the other pre-war luxuries were supplied not by Downing money, but by the Smythe-Hatton legacy.

  “We have a lovely cemetery on the edge of town,” an older woman to whom she had not been introduced said now as though offering comfort. “I’m sure your friend will rest peacefully there.”

  Violet choked on her tiny piece of biscuit, only regaining herself after drinking half a glass of the water Betsy pressed on her. “Maybe it’s too soon to talk about that,” Betsy told the other woman. “She’s just been told.”

  “I was only trying to help,” the pleasant-faced woman insisted. Violet didn’t mind—not much. She was used to being given orders and she supposed something would have to be done with what was left of Lady Laura.

  “This is Mrs. Myers,” Betsy introduced with a quick smile. “Housekeeper emeritus for the Stephens family and dear friend to us all.”

  Violet didn’t quite understand what was being said and the connecting of servants and friendship was foreign to her, though Margaret who had worked for Lady Laura most of her life, having followed her mother as lady’s maid did have a special relationship with her employer. But Lady Laura would never have permitted public familiarity.

  “You probably should ask Margaret what she wants done. She’s the only one who would care.”

  Both Betsy an
d Mrs. Myers stared for a minute and were only distracted when little Ben, his round face angelic, deliberately pushed his plate to the floor. “Don’t like eggs,” he said.

  The scene became quickly chaotic when someone pounded enthusiastically at the front door, bringing Betsy to her feet. Before she could run to admit the demanding visitor, they heard the door open and a cheerful male voice call, “I’m coming in. Betsy, where are you?”

  “Caleb!” Betsy’s face lighted. Baby Emilee shrieked delightedly and Ben yelled, “Papa!” and ran into the arms of the man who appeared, grinning widely, in the doorway.

  His face was familiar to Violet as were most of those closest to Warne in this small world. This was Caleb Carr, Betsy’s husband, a strongly-built man who walked with the cane now knocked to the floor by the embraces as his little family all tried to hug him at once.

  “You’re early,” Betsy accused happily. “I wasn’t expecting you until evening.”

  “Couldn’t stand another minute of the quiet,” Caleb said, kissing her heartily.

  Violet watched them with envy. She couldn’t even imagine herself in such a scene.

  Margaret had insisted that Lady Laura’s body must be returned to the English countryside cemetery where Smythe-Hattons had been interred for centuries. “She couldn’t rest unless she was buried at home.”

  Violet, accustomed to the pointlessness of arguing with Margaret, sat quietly and left it to the rest of them. The way she’d figured things out Laura Smythe-Hatton wouldn’t much care either way. No doubt she’d consider it just another adventure in a long and eccentric life that she’d been thrown across the wide ocean to die in this faraway place. Also she was probably mad as she could be that Violet hadn’t arranged things better.

  Vague thoughts of that irrational promise she’d demanded on her deathbed brushed across her mind, quickly dismissed. Go back? How was she to manage that even if these were normal times when she had no resources to get her anywhere. No, soon as she got past the funeral, she’d be out looking for a place of service that would provide her with bed and board.