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

by Barbara Bartholomew

  “It’s time the boy had a chance to grow up,” Hallie had told her old friend in her son’s presence. “He’s a right to sow a few wild oats.”

  His sisters told him he was breaking Mama’s heart and anyway didn’t he know that Mrs. Grimsby didn’t allow visitors of the opposite sex in her rooms. Anyway that girl from England had a job now working at the mercantile and Mr. Forrest had allowed her the little apartment in back of the store as part of her pay so he didn’t have to worry about her anymore.

  She was such a plain girl anyway. They could introduce him to friends of theirs who were much more attractive.

  Long experienced with the womenfolk in his family, Warne kept his calm and nodded politely, then went ahead with his plans. As always, he joined his sisters and their families at Mama’s for Sunday after-church dinner, not so much because he enjoyed the routine but because he knew his mother did.

  His days were busy, but his nights were full of terrible dreams where danger rode the skies above and aircraft dropped death below. He knew they weren’t his own nightmares, but that once again he was sharing Violet’s life.

  He felt the walls and ceilings collapse around him, slamming painfully against his body, crushing him in debris so that he was choking and unable to breathe.

  “Violet,” he called, fearful for her. “Where are you?”

  And then he was suddenly sharply awake and knew that in his sleep he’d called out her name so loudly that the sleeper on the other side of the wall yelled. “You all right, Warne?”

  He tried to regain his composure even though it was still as though he felt the weight against him and breathed in smoke-filled air. “Just a nightmare,” he called back. “Sorry I waked you.”

  He heard mumbling and grumbling from the distance, then quiet again and he lay motionless, still afraid for Violet. But he could hardly run down to her apartment in downtown Lavender, he’d scare her to death.

  And she was safe. He was sure she was safe. No doubt she’d just been dreaming of events so recently past and somehow the connection between them had allowed her nightmares to spill over to him.

  Her first day of work at Forrest Stephens’ downtown mercantile had not been a pleasant experience. In her nervousness, Violet made just about every possible mistake, including over-charging a protesting customer because of a simple mistake in addition, fumbling as she tried to put together a package for another, and spilling a tray of coins all over the floor.

  She hadn’t a clue as how to do anything and though the other clerk, an older woman, was friendly and tried to help, she was acutely conscious of Buddy Markam’s disapproving gaze resting continuously on her as she worked.

  Not that Mr. Markham didn’t say all the right things. He’d obviously had his instructions from his boss and determined to make a show of being supportive of the new clerk. But though the words were right, the tone wasn’t. He was condescending and disapproving, apparently certain that she was bound to fail and he only had to be patient long enough for her to so totally disgrace herself that Grandpapa Forrest would remove her from the store.

  Deeply discouraged and aching in every bone and muscle, more from the stress of the day than from the work itself, she skipped supper and went straight to bed in the little furnished bedroom that made up part of the tiny apartment back of the store.

  She’d expected to be glad to be in her own place, earned by her efforts and no longer sponging off the Stephens in their big house, but instead she felt more desperately alone and hopeless than she ever had before in her life.

  At least as a servant in the house in London, she’d known her place. She might stand on the lowest rung of the social order, but she knew she was safe there and would never be dismissed because her work was needed. Here she might be fired tomorrow or the next day if Mr. Markham got his way. She wasn’t so naïve as not to realize that he would try to arrange things so as to get rid of her. He hadn’t liked being told her had to hire her.

  Since it was a hot night, she propped the bedroom window open and leaned to look out at the lights all over town. Mostly the homes were lit by candles and oil lamps, but they did have a few hours of electricity in the evening in the streets closest to downtown.

  She’d blown out her own light and now as she watched the multiple glow of lights seemed almost miraculous after the months of darkness in a London shrouded as protection against invaders.

  Weary beyond belief, she didn’t stand watching for long, but climbed into her narrow bed and closed her eyes. She should be happy to be here in this peaceful place, but life was never that simple.

  She was English and she’d escaped the fate of her fellow citizens. If anybody had asked, she’d have said that wouldn’t bother her one iota. Her countrymen hadn’t treated her so well that she owed them anything.

  But she knew she had no right to be here escaping the terror that was Britain under attack. Tired as she was, she was a long time going to sleep, but finally fell like a rock sinking into a pond.

  Hours later she began to drift upward through what seemed layers of rippling water, emerging from thick and dreamless sleep until it seemed Lady Laura stood before her.

  Even though she was still about a hundred years old, she no longer looked sick and hurt, the way she’d been when she lay dying in the Stephens home. This was Lady Laura as she’d been in the years before the war, strong and indomitable, bossing her whole family and a house full of servants.

  “I hope you’re proud of yourself,” she said now in the high-toned accent of the upper crust. “Does a promise mean nothing to you, Violet James?”

  Instinctively Violet drew back, uncomfortably aware that she wore only Sylvie’s castoff nightgown with not even slippers on her feet. Lady Laura would not approve.

  She drew up her courage by deciding that Lady Laura, no longer alive, had no authority over her. “I didn’t think you were actually in your right mind when you asked for that promise.”

  “Really!” The old woman’s stare sent icicles in her direction. “When, Violet, have I ever been less than in full possession of my senses?”

  Deflated, Violet opened her mouth to speak, but found the words wouldn’t come out.

  “You must go back to England and see to things. Believe me when I tell you this is of the utmost importance to the family here and there. Unless you do as you’re told, disaster will be sure and swift. Even now the walls are crumbling.”

  Lady Laura still glared at her for seconds after she came to wakefulness, then her image faded and Betsy looked around her cozy little room and knew it was morning of the new day.

  Morning, but still very early morning. The clock on her little bedside table said it wasn’t yet five and she was trembling with fatigue. If she were going to do her work today, she must have sleep.

  Telling herself it had only been a dream and Lady Laura forever past predicting horrible things, she forced herself into sleep, only to fall once more into dreams.

  This time she was back in the house in London that most likely no longer existed and she heard the whistle of the bombs and then, almost instantly, the shattering explosion around her.

  As she looked, more observer than participant, it was as though in slow motion that the walls fell and the ceiling dropped around her, leaving her standing safely in a clear circle in the middle of the dining room. And then she heard Warne’s voice calling her. “Violet,” he called. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m here,” she called back. “I’m safe. Where are you?”

  “Buried under everything.” His voice sounded smothered, suppressed. “I can barely breathe.”

  Frantically she started to search for him, tugging and tearing at the boards and bits of torn-apart house that covered everything but herself. “Warne,” she yelled. “Call again so I can follow your voice to find you.”

  She heard only the distant wail of sirens and, somewhere, far off, a woman screaming. Warne did not answer her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Basicall
y, Betsy thought, her little sister was a sweetheart. “We must do something about Violet,” she said at breakfast. “She’s wearing my old clothes, but she’s inches shorter than me and smaller all over.”

  “She’s quite petite,” Cynthia Stephens agreed. Mother and daughters had lingered over the meal after the others had gone their way. Betsy suspected Cynthia and Sylvie had hung around because they were conscious of how disturbed she was by her inability to leave Lavender to go looking for Eddie and Zan.

  Certainly she’d moaned and groaned enough about it. Mom had cautioned her to give the matter a little time and things would work out. Sylvie had proposed about a dozen impossible plans to rescue their sister from the world where she’d chosen to live. But now her mind had shifted to another subject.

  “I went down to the store yesterday. And she looks like a little crushed mouse.”

  Cynthia’s interest brightened, her kind face concerned. “I told Forrest she’s too timid to work with the public. We’ll find her something else.”

  “Hey!” Sylvie objected. “I told her we’d skip out together and run home. Buddy is mean to her and she shouldn’t stand that.”

  “Oh I can’t imagine Buddy Markam being unkind to anyone,” her mother said. “He’s always so pleasant.”

  “To you, maybe,” Sylvie said flatly. “And it’s subtle. He’s just on the edge of sarcastic, you know ‘tear you down’ mean when he talks to Violet. Nothing you can quite put your finger on, but it’s a wonder she doesn’t melt into a little puddle on the floor from the tone he uses to her.”

  “But Sylvie, why would he have it in for Violet? She’s such an inoffensive little person.”

  “Like a kicked puppy,” Sylvie said. “And some people are only fierce enough to kick defenseless animals.”

  “And, in a way, your grandfather forced him to hire Violet,” Mama added thoughtfully.

  “She wouldn’t leave and come home with me,” Sylvie said. “She said she needed the job and would stick it out.”

  The three exchanged glances. Close as they were, they could communicate without words, though fifteen-year-old Sylvie sometimes complained that her mother and both her sisters could read her mind, which was hardly fair.

  “Clothes,” she felt compelled to point out. “She needs some pretty new dresses and shoes and a nice hat. Things meant to suit her. She’ll feel better about herself and other people will see her differently.”

  Mama frowned. “Violet has beauty within, which is what counts.”

  Betsy grinned. “A little without wouldn’t hurt though.”

  She couldn’t resist. Her new dress, a simple cotton that ironed to a crisp finish, was a light mint green in the style worn in Lavender, trimmed with minute touches of handmade lace. It looked nothing like what women were wearing in 1940s London, fashions from several years past because of the war, but had a sweeping skirt that went gracefully down to the ankles. It was the prettiest dress she’d ever owned. In fact, it was the only pretty dress that had ever come her way, a dress never worn by anyone else, but which was made just for her.

  Mrs. Myers, who said she didn’t sew as much these days as when she was younger, had made the dress from a design planned by Betsy. “Betsy’s the one who likes fashions,” Cynthia Stephens said of her daughter. “Eddie is too busy with other things to worry much about clothes.”

  Betsy, who with her two children, still lingered in Lavender though Caleb had returned home several days ago, seemed to take great delight in presenting the new dress to Violet.

  In fact all the women in the household had gathered to enjoy the surprise when it was given to her. Violet told herself she couldn’t say no when they were all having such fun. Besides she wanted the beautiful dress more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

  Betsy pushed her toward her upstairs bedroom in order to help her put on new underthings, the dress and slip on new white summer shoes, then stepped back to admire her.

  “This is too much,” Violet protested. “Not shoes too. I can’t accept all this.”

  “You have to have pretty clothes to work in if you’re going to sell pretty clothes to other women,” Betsy insisted, steering her in front of the long mirror so that she could see all of herself.

  Violet’s first thought was that at least she didn’t look laughable all fixed up in clothes too good for her. Her second was that she hardly recognized the girl in the mirror. She could have been someone she’d passed in the street, but didn’t know.

  Her dark hair and eyes were emphasized by the soft pure color. Her trim figure looked almost . . .well, elegant . . .instead of skinny and shapeless. The toes of her newly clad small feet peeked out from under the skirt.

  “Sit down,” Betsy ordered. Obediently, hardly knowing what she as doing, Violet seated herself on the skirted vanity stool and watched with wide eyes as Betsy quickly combed her hair and swept it up on the top of her head to fix it in place with her own tortoise shell combs.

  Sylvie was pounding on the door, calling that everyone was getting tired of waiting before Betsy led the way out, a hot flush of embarrassment warming Violet’s face as she went down the stairs to be greeted by the exclamations of the women of the Stephens household.

  “So becoming,” Cynthia Stephens’ words were the only ones that came across clearly and Violet was caught between feeling like a fraud and at the same time as though she had been reborn.

  Typically Papa didn’t even seem to notice Violet’s new and improved appearance as he came in the front door, frowning at the envelope he held in his hand.

  Betsy told herself that was all right. Papa liked Violet just the way she was and treated her as just an extra daughter he was glad to have around the place. The younger men would notice that she wasn’t nearly as plain as they’d thought, but instead had a charmingly delicate beauty now that she had the clothes to bring it out. Violet needed color. Black turned her into a shadow.

  But Papa had other worries and was determined to smash up the party. “Cynthia,” he said to his wife, ignoring the rest of them. “We have a letter.”

  “Dr. Evan, we’re having tea in honor of Violet,” said Mrs. Myers who had looked after his only daughter until Cynthia and Betsy arrived on the scene, and therefore felt privileged to scold him on the rare occasions she thought necessary.

  He didn’t pay attention, not even to her. “No,” he said as though his wife had argued with him. “A letter, Cynthia. A letter!”

  Suddenly Betsy who knew more about their past than most of the others present got it.

  A letter. Mama and Papa had first met when he’d written to her, a single parent like himself, both of them lonely. The letters they had written had surmounted time, crossing the barrier between Lavender locked in the past and the 21st century where Cynthia and Betsy lived. Those letters had led to love and an eternal connection so that Cynthia and Betsy had traveled to Texas to cross over to what would become their new home.

  “A letter from outside?” Betsy asked breathlessly while the women around her grew silent and Violet froze in place as though she realized something momentous was occurring.

  Evan looked at her and nodded. “A letter from Eddie,” he said. Even though he was Edith ‘Eddie’ Stephens own father, he acknowledged Cynthia as the only mother she’d ever know.

  Tears came to Cynthia’s lovely eyes as she looked down at the missive, obviously remembering another time when impossible letters came into her hand. She glanced up to smile into his eyes, then handed the letter to Betsy.”

  “It’s addressed to you, my dear,” she said softly.

  It was. The address was Crockett Street, but the name was Betsy Carr. Uneasily Betsy guessed that Eddie had something to say that she didn’t want to send directly to her parents. Either that or she thought because of Betsy’s time walking abilities she might be more likely to receive a message written so many years in the future.

  Even though it was what she wanted to do, Betsy knew she didn’t dare escape up
the stairs to her room to read what Eddie had written. These loving people around her had been so concerned about Eddie since they’d been cut off. They’d probably mob her if she tried to walk away with the letter.

  She opened it and began to read eagerly.

  Dearest Sister,

  I am scared to death because I cannot reach you. Zan and I have taken up residence in the nearest city so we can drive out daily to our usual meeting place, but each day we are disappointed.

  At first I thought only that you were busy and couldn’t come, but now I am fearful that you are injured or ill, knowing that you would come for us if you could.

  The worry that most afflicts me, however, is that little Lavender has vanished in a puff of wind, forever snuffed from existence. Even Zan, who as you know normally thinks only in scientific terms, feels something is wrong in Lavender.

  My dear, please get word to me if you possible can. I send this letter in desperate hope that as Mama and Papa managed to write to each other back when we were children, my message will reach you.

  With so much love,

  Your sister Eddie

  “They’re all right,” she said, anxious to relieve Mama’s anxious eyes and Papa’s tension-knotted fists. Then she read again, slowly and clearly enunciating the words out loud this time so that all those waiting could hear.

  Chapter Twelve

  Even wearing the mint green dress to work that afternoon and catching sight of Warne’s face as he saw her in it for the first time did not allow her to go to bed that night to dream of lovely things.

  For the first time, she was beginning to take Lady Laura’s warnings seriously. Even Eddie’s scientist husband thought something was wrong in Lavender and the normally light-hearted Betsy went around looking like a thundercloud these days.

  By coming to Lavender she’d caused some terrible change and the only advice she’d had about repairing the damage was Lady Laura telling her she must go home to England.