Wilkins’ eyes flashed fire, and he bared his teeth as he lunged toward Sam.
George and Tobias quickly stepped between the two men, separating them.
“You’ll pay for this!” Wilkins snarled, looking over George’s shoulder toward Sam. “You’ll pay for this Marshall.” He shook off George and stalked away.
Sam didn’t like the uneasy feeling that settled over him.
“That did not go at all as I had planned.” He cleared his throat and frowned.
“I think it went rather well, considering.” George slapped him on the back
Sam looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Well?”
“He didn’t kill you.”
“Not yet,” Tobias muttered from the stable doorway.
Sam glared at his servant, who had the sense to look at the ground.
Not yet, indeed.
Maybe going off to war wasn’t going to be such a bad thing after all.
Chapter Eleven
Emily
Emily watched from around the corner of the stable as Wilkins stalked off. Sam had defended her honor. Is that what you would call it? For a moment it gave her a warm fuzzy feeling inside. No one had ever fought on her behalf before. But then she recalled what he had said “you hit a white woman.” It didn’t matter who she was, just that she was white. And Beck had been hit more times and with less provocation. He wasn’t punishing the overseer for that. It was because she was white. The warm fuzzy feeling faded.
She ducked into the stable, inhaling the scent of clean hay and horse and let her eyes adjust to the dimness within. An old man with a stooped back and cotton-white hair over his dark face was pitching hay into the stalls.
“Moses?” she called out softly, not wanting to startle the man, and not even sure he was the man she wanted.
The man’s back straightened somewhat and he almost dropped the pitchfork, but by the time he had turned to face her, no surprise was evident on his face.
“Yes, miss? How can ole’ Moses help you?”
“I need information.” She met his eyes, but he looked away.
He leaned the pitch fork against the wall. “I reckon I don’t have much, miss. But you’re welcome to what I’ve got.”
“What can you tell me about the fishpond?”
If he was surprised by her question, he didn’t show it. Maybe when you are a slave you get very good at hiding your emotions. Or, maybe, he wasn’t surprised by her question.
He rubbed his chin. “There’s catfish in there, and sometimes trout. It gets fed by a creek and sometimes there’s enough fish in there to catch your dinner, but usually it’s just for looks. In fact, there’s some snapping turtles that make their home there. Best to stay away from it. If you wish to go fishing, I know of a much likelier fishing hole over yonder.”
“I don’t want to go fishing.” Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe Beck had been lying when she said that Moses knew all about the legend of the fishpond and people who mysteriously disappeared or appeared. She had been sure he would be able to tell her the secret to having the pond bring her back to her own time.
“What you want to know then?” Moses didn’t meet her eyes.
She looked around to be sure they were alone, but no one was there to hear. Even the horses were out in the paddock getting fresh air and exercise.
“Is there a legend? Beck said there was a legend, and that you knew it.”
For a second Emily saw understanding and recognition flash through the watery eyes of the old man, and then his face resumed its placid expression.
“No,” he said. “There’s no legend.”
Had Beck lied to her? It was possible, but she didn’t think that was the case. And she’d seen the look in his eyes when she mentioned the legend. He knew something about it, but didn’t want to tell her.
Emily leaned close to him. “Nothing about the pond being magical?”
He drew back from her, blinking rapidly, and shook his head. “No. There’s nothing.”
Was he afraid? Of her? Of the legend? She stared him down, and he looked away
“Please,” she begged as tears pricked her eye and an unwanted lump formed in her throat.
He picked up his pitchfork without making eye contact.
“I’ve got work to do, miss, if you’ll excuse me.” He went back to his work.
Emily watched him for a moment. She wanted to grab him to make him look at her, to make him tell what he knew, but she couldn’t do that. The man already suffered enough indignity, being a slave. He didn’t need her forcing him to tell her when he didn’t want to. But he knew about the legend, Emily was sure of it.
And she needed to find out what that was.
She left the stables, stepping out into the late afternoon sun, and walked to the fish pond. What was it about this body of water? Was it some sort of a weird portal? How could something like that even happen. It couldn’t. Not in any reality she was aware of. Yet, here she was, clearly back in the 1860s when the other day she’d been in the twenty-first century.
The pond didn’t look magical. It wasn’t even particularly picturesque. It was bigger now than it had been when it was in the yard of the inn. In the future, there would be a stone wall around it, containing it, controlling it, making it into a feature of the landscaping as opposed to a naturally occurring body of water.
She had fallen into that water in the twenty-first century and emerged in the nineteenth. That much seemed clear. Unless this was some sort of hallucination. But no, she could still feel where the whip had hit her back. This was real. So, why, when she had gone back into the water had she not come out at her own time again? Was it because she didn’t have the silver? Was there more involved? It had been night. There had been a full moon. And fog. Which of these things mattered?
Moses had to know, otherwise Beck wouldn’t have bothered saying something. She had to find a way to convince him to tell her.
“Miss Parks?”
She jumped, startled, and turned to see Sam a few yards behind her.
“Not planning on jumping in again, are you?” His tone was somewhere between joking and real concern.
She stepped away from the water’s edge. “No. No.” Not yet, anyway. “I was just admiring the pond.”
“How is your back? Did the salve help? I cannot express strongly enough how sorry I am that happened to you.” He took a couple of steps toward her and reached out as if to touch her.
“I’m fine.” Automatically she flexed her shoulder, assessing how much it still hurt. It was a dull ache now and would probably not bother her at all by tomorrow. “It was my own fault really. If you step in front of a moving whip, I suppose you have to expect to get hit.”
“I’ve punished Wilkins.” Sam cleared his throat and tugged at his jacket sleeve.
She was about to say that she knew, but she probably wasn’t supposed to know that.
“Have you?” she asked. “I’m sorry I caused you distress.”
He took another step toward her. Only a few feet separated them now.
“No, please, it is I who owe you the apology, not the other way around.”
This could go on all night, the two of them apologizing to each other. Emily grinned and held out her hand. “I forgive you if you forgive me. Fair?”
He grasped her hand, his gray eyes shining as he smiled at her. Instead of shaking it, as she expected, he brought it to his lips. Shivers ran up and down her arm. She’d never known a kiss on the hand could be so sensuous. How sad that it had gone out of fashion.
“Forgiven.” He did not let go of her hand, but tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “Would you like to see the rose garden?”
It was surprisingly pleasant to have her arm linked with his. It made her feel protected and cared for. She would go anywhere with him right now to keep that feeling alive.
“That sounds lovely.”
“The roses aren’t in bloom yet,” he apologized as he led her across the lawn.
“That’s all righ
t,” she assured him. “I’m sure it’s lovely anyway.”
They walked in silence for a moment, and then he cleared his throat and said, “Is it too forward to ask why you have come back? Was it simply to return the fork you accidentally took away with you?”
She loved that he ascribed the simplest and most innocent intentions to her actions.
“Oh, yes, I meant to return the fork. Such a ridiculous oversight on my part. And I will never forgive myself that Beck took punishment on my behalf for that.” And she wouldn’t either. She had never realized before how her actions could have such negative consequences on others. She would be much more careful going forward.
He patted her hand reassuringly. “These things happen.”
“They shouldn’t.” She wasn’t normally one to stir up trouble, but she didn’t plan to be around long and some things had to be said. “I can’t believe she was whipped when no one had any proof of wrong doing. Isn’t there some sort of trial system or anything for when a slave gets in trouble?”
“Generally it’s left up to the overseer.”
The way he emphasized generally made her wonder if he thought that wasn’t such a good plan. She stole a glance at him. He stared out over the fields, as the late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the landscape, but she didn’t think he really saw any of it. What was on his mind? She almost wished she’d have the time to get to know and understand him better.
“I see.” She tried to keep her tone noncommittal, though a bit of animosity may have crept in.
“It’s the way it’s always been done.” He adopted a slight defensive, yet also apologetic tone.
“Sometimes what’s always been done, isn’t the right thing.”
How much should she try to get involved to fix things here? Should she try to free the slaves? Should she convince Sam to free them? The Civil War was starting, they’d all be free soon anyway, maybe there was really nothing she could do to make a difference.
They came to a garden enclosed by a white picket fence with a gate in an arching arbor. Sam unlatched it and led her inside. The rose bushes were green with new growth and covered in tiny buds. It wouldn’t be long before they erupted in bloom.
“It must be spectacular when the roses bloom.”
“It is.” He stopped by one sprawling bush to examine the nascent buds before they continued down the crushed shell path. He cleared his throat. “Miss Parks, should I be offering you a ride back into town?”
The way he worded the question alerted her to the fact that he probably didn’t believe her story and didn’t think she had a place to stay in town. Should she admit everything? No. Not yet. First, she needed to find out things from Moses; of course in order to do that, she needed to stay here. She needed to think of an excuse, and she needed it fast.
She tried to match his formal tone. “I’m afraid, Mr. Marshall, that the friend with whom I thought I was staying has left town. If I could impose on your hospitality for a few days, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“Of course, it is my pleasure.”
He answered so quickly and guilelessly that it brought that thickening back to her throat. She was very lucky that it was Sam she had landed on when she’d fallen back in time.
“Thank you.” She wanted to say more, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t let her. They walked in silence, and she caught the heady perfume of lilac. The roses might not be in bloom yet, but that wasn’t the only flower in this garden, and the purple lilac bushes were resplendent.
Sam pointed to some bright yellow tulips growing by the path. “My favorites. They are so cheerful looking.”
“I think daisies are the most cheerful,” she answered, stopping to study the flowers more closely. “But tulips make me think of Holland and windmills and canals, all peaceful things.”
“Are daisies your favorite then?”
She cocked her head. Were they? “I think I have different favorites for different sorts of things. Daffodils and crocuses because they mean spring is coming, roses because they are delightfully romantic, mums because they make me think of cozy nights by the fire and pumpkin spice coffee…” She remembered where, and when, she was and amended. “I mean pumpkin pie and coffee.”
“A very diplomatic answer.” He squeezed her hand gently and she tingled at the touch. “You have not offended any of the flowers.”
“Thank goodness.” She was able to laugh with him. The overwhelming emotions from before had dissipated a bit. Maybe he knew something about the legend of the pond. Maybe she wouldn’t have to bother old Moses.
“Once,” she started as their footsteps crunched on the crushed shells, “when I was a little girl, someone told me a fairy story about a magic pond.” They walked by a lilac bush, and the scent of the flowers was nearly intoxicating.
“Is this the story where you kiss a toad, and he turns into a prince?”
“Oh, no! But that is a good story too. Though it never did prompt me to kiss any frogs.”
Sam chuckled. “My sister kissed one once. Turned out it was a regular frog, not an enchanted prince.” He led her to a wrought iron bench tucked underneath an arbor with rose bushes climbing up both sides. She was careful to adjust her hoops before she sat.
“I hope this wasn’t recently,” she said.
He laughed louder.
“Oh, no. She was about four at the time.”
“A four-year-old wouldn’t know what to do with a prince anyway. She was better off with the frog.”
“Undoubtedly.” He rested his hands chastely in his lap, though she found herself wishing he would touch her more, put his arm around her or his hand on her knee. Those things weren’t appropriate though, not now, and probably not even in her own time, since he was engaged to be married. “So, tell me, what was magic about the pond in your story?”
“It took people places,” she said before she could stop herself.
“What kind of places?” he asked quietly.
“Places different than where they started out.” She never should have said anything. It was stupid and foolish. She should have simply…done what? Found another fork and risk having someone else whipped for her? Forced Moses to tell her things he obviously didn’t want to? What options did she have here anyway?
“Is that why you jumped in the pond?” Sam’s voice was barely above a whisper. “So you could go someplace else?”
“No!” She jumped up and away from him. That explanation made her sound absolutely insane. “She caught her breath and tried to regain her composure, what was left of it anyway. She breathed in and out slowly once, twice. Stay calm, don’t behave like a lunatic. “No,” she repeated more quietly. “That was…that was an accident. Forget I said anything. It’s not important. Really it’s not.” She turned from him, hugging her arms around her waist, made impossibly thin with the corset. She was giving herself away. She didn’t want to do that. Did she? She wished she knew what was right. Tell him the truth or not? She had told Beck, why did she not feel she could tell Sam?
Maybe because Beck had no power. She could do nothing to her. But Sam had power. Lots of it. What could he do to someone who showed up and claimed to be from the future and had arrived via a magic fish pond? If it were her in his position, she’d be calling the closest psychiatric ward. She didn’t need him doing that! She’d read about mental hospitals of the nineteenth century, and she had absolutely no desire to end up there. They practically kept people in cages, for crying out loud. If she wasn’t crazy going in, she certainly would be in short order.
She felt a tentative hand on her shoulder, as gentle as a butterfly. “Can I help?”
“No,” she said and then shook her head and turned to face him. “I mean, yes. You can let me stay here until I get myself sorted. Just a day or two, I promise. Really, that’s all I need.”
“There’s nothing else I can do? No people I can contact?”
If only it were that simple.
“No,” she said with a sigh. Sudde
nly her limbs felt heavy, and the weight of the world seemed to descend on her chest. Tears welled up inside her. All she wanted to do was curl up and have a good cry.
“I need,” she started, her voice catching. She took a steadying breath. “I need a drink.”
“That I can do.” He took her hand again, tucking it back into the crook of his elbow and she allowed herself to be led back to the house, out of the garden and its enchanting scents of lilac and fresh earth. They passed the stables with it’s much more pungent odors of horse and manure and fresh hay. As they approached the back of the house, they passed an outbuilding with smoke rising from the chimney. Mouth watering aromas of fresh baked bread and roasting meat filled the air. That would be the kitchen.
He led her into the house by a back door. In the dining room, a young black girl set the table. The portraits on the wall stared down at her, the same as yesterday. How had it only been yesterday that she’d been at Dayna’s wedding? Hadn’t she lived a lifetime since then?
Soon they were in a book lined study. He brought her straight to a sumptuous red leather wing chair. She sat, letting the coziness of the room, the luxuriousness of the chair envelop her. She watched as he went to the sideboard and sorted through various bottles before opening one and pouring the amber colored drink into a ball-shaped glass.
He handed it to her. “This should help.”
She took it gratefully and sipped.
It didn’t solve all her problems, but it certainly helped.
Chapter Twelve
Sam
Sam removed the empty brandy glass from Miss Parks’ inert hand and covered her sleeping form with a crocheted blanket. Teardrops lingered on her long eyelashes. He wished he could do more to help her, but until she gave him some clue as to what was going on, he couldn’t do much.
He sat back down at the chestnut desk and buried his head in his hands. When had he lost control of his life? He was engaged to be married to a woman he did not love, he was going to sign up for a war he didn’t want to fight, and he was supposed to be running a plantation he felt unqualified to run. And now this mysterious woman had dropped into his life. He picked his head back up and sighed. He had work to do.
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