Emily's Song

by Christine Marciniak

  “My parents have an apple tree.” She kept her gaze on the fluttering petals, and a dreamy quality came into her voice. “I used to like to climb up in it, until one day I discovered I shared my branch with ants. I decided the bugs could have the tree. I’d read my book someplace more civilized.”

  He laughed, and she gave him a grin, while a rosy blush formed on her cheeks. He envisioned the young Miss Parks indignant that a bug would share her space. He could picture it all too well, because he remembered the squeals and screams from Elizabeth whenever anything creepy or crawly got near her. Of course, as her older brother, he’d often made sure to point out any creepy crawly thing just to enjoy her reaction.

  “Do you have any brothers?” It was amazing how little he knew about her.

  She nodded, still mesmerized by the falling blossoms. “One. Patrick.”

  “Older or younger?”

  “Younger. He’s…” She broke off from whatever she was going to say as if momentarily confused, but then continued. “He’s away at school.”

  So, she had parents, though he did remember her saying her mother was gone, and a brother, and apparently a happy childhood that included time for climbing trees and reading. Why was there no one she wanted him to contact on her behalf? Had she run away? What had interrupted that idyllic life?

  “You must miss him.” He clucked to the horse who had started to wander to munch on a patch of clover.

  She nodded, but didn’t answer. When he looked closer he saw a tear glimmering on her eyelid. Something wasn’t adding up here.

  “Hopefully this war will be long over before he has to worry about leaving school and enlisting.” He took a shot at what might be bothering her.

  Her eyes widened. They were almost honey colored. “The war!” she said as if she had forgotten about it, though it seemed impossible anyone would have. It’s all anyone could talk about these days.

  “I’m sure it will be over by Christmas.” He tried to sound reassuring and certain, although personally he had his doubts that this would be a quick rout.

  “Ha!” she said, but there was no humor in her voice. “It will be long and bloody and thousands upon thousands will die.”

  She said it with such certainty that his blood froze within him.

  “Perhaps it won’t be as bad as all that.” He hoped. He prayed.

  She looked at him then, a pitying look. Then a small smile came across her face, making her beautiful. “I’m sorry, I’m not a very good picnic companion, am I?”

  “I never should have brought up war. It’s not a pleasant picnic topic.” He was quite foolish to be out with a beautiful woman and talking of war.

  The lovely open smile had vanished. She didn’t seem to notice the falling apple petals anymore. She faced forward, hands primly folded in her lap.

  “Show me something beautiful.”

  “More beautiful than this?” He waved his arm to encompass the orchard, but already he knew of the exact place to take her and he clucked to the horse and turned his head toward the woods. The horse followed the track toward the creek. If she wanted someplace beautiful he’d show her the waterfall. The coolness of the glade enveloped them. It had rained a few days ago, and still the earth here held that damp, loamy scent. He inhaled deeply. He would miss this when he went off to war.

  A squirrel scampered in front of them, but the horse barely noticed. He could hear the crash of the water as it fell from one level to another in the creek. The trees thinned, and he reined in the horse in the clearing by the creek. A little later in the season it would be awash in wildflowers, and already there were violets and daffodils and tulips adding a bit of color to the green of the meadow. The creek ran cool and clear, jumping playfully over stones, and at the edge of the clearing was the waterfall, bringing the water down ten feet from the creek above.

  “Do you like it?” He couldn’t say why he so desperately wanted her approval, but he nearly held his breath until he saw the smile once again transform her face.

  “It’s wonderful!” She clapped her hands together in delight. “Is this where we will have our picnic?”

  “I can’t think of a better place.” He looped the reins around a tree and helped her down from the carriage. She was not particularly graceful. Not for the first time he got the impression she was not used to the clothes she wore or even getting in and out of carriages. Perhaps she was from some poor family living in the backwoods somewhere and was trying to improve her situation. That would explain any number of things, including why she was so hesitant to tell him where she was from.

  She hurried to the creek edge while he got the basket from the carriage. What on earth had Sally packed in this thing? Was she expecting him to feed a battalion as opposed to one lone girl? He spread a white and red checkered quilt on the ground by the water and went to stand beside Miss Parks.

  “Beautiful enough for you?” He clasped his hands behind his back, to keep himself from reaching out and touching her.

  “It’s perfect. Like something the fairies have conjured up for our pleasure. Surely a place like this can’t be real.”

  She didn’t speak like someone from the backwoods somewhere, she spoke like an educated, wealthy woman, but a shiver went up his spine at the mention of fairies. Certainly it was a coincidence she would say that. She didn’t really believe in fairies, did she? Could fairies really have brought her?

  “Didn’t know fairies were known for their beautiful scenery.” He tried to keep the right amount of humor in his voice, while behind his back he twisted his fingers together.

  “Oh, I don’t suppose they are.” She turning to him, her eyes filled with light. “But sometimes it’s easy to forget that such beautiful places exist. Thank you.”

  He wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for. Taking her to a beautiful picnic spot? That was hardly a chore on his part.

  “Are you hungry, shall we eat?”

  “Is it lunchtime already?” She glanced at her wrist quickly as if by instinct and then put her arms behind her back.

  He shielded his eyes and peered through the trees to gauge the position of the sun. It was close enough to noon to warrant opening that picnic basket. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Famished,” she admitted with refreshing candor. He could never imagine Dinah being so honest about hunger. “This corset makes it hard for me to eat, it squeezes me so.”

  He’d been regretting thinking about Dinah, and now with the image the word corset brought to mind, his cheeks flushed. “Don’t you normally wear a corset?” He tried to make his voice casual, as if discussing women’s undergarments wasn’t the most inappropriate thing he could do under the circumstances.

  She couldn’t hide the wide-eyed look of fear that flitted across her face, but almost as soon as it appeared, she grinned, blushing, making him wonder if he had imagined it after all.

  “I. Well. I guess Beck must tie it tighter than I’m used to.” She turned from him, staring out at the water, hiding whatever her expression might give away.

  He couldn’t exactly offer to loosen it for her, though he certainly wouldn’t mind.

  “You’ll have to speak to Beck, perhaps she can tie them looser from now on.”

  “Not as long as I’m wearing Elizabeth’s borrowed dresses. It’s the only way I’ll fit into them.” Her tone was matter of fact, but he wondered if she was blushing as deeply as he was.

  He should have known better than to mention corsets and such. There was a reason they were called unmentionables. She did fill out Elizabeth’s dresses better than his sister ever had. And he had to force himself to look away from her bosom and concentrate on something else. It was true, though, that she had no dresses of her own. Should he offer to buy her some? He had the means. But if she were only going to be here for a few days, perhaps it wasn’t worth the effort. On the other hand, if she had run away from someplace and was starting over, then she might not be at all adverse to the idea of being properly dressed. He’d m
ention that later, now might not be the best time. Instead he opened the picnic hamper.

  A bottle of chilled wine sat right on top. Perfect. A little wine would relax them both.

  He extracted the cork and sniffed. A lovely Chardonnay. He poured it and brought a glass over to Miss Parks.

  “Wine!” She had managed to compose herself and smiled at him as she took the proffered glass. “This is very luxurious, a picnic with wine in the middle of the week.”

  “It is, rather,” he agreed. Not the wine so much, he often had that with lunch, but the picnic. It made his problems seem very far away. “I don’t often do this myself. Perhaps I should more often.”

  “What do you normally do?” She took a sip of her wine and looking over her glass at him with those big brown eyes.

  “A lot of figuring numbers. It’s the most boring part about being in charge.” How many beautiful afternoons had he spent in the study, poring over the ledgers when he’d rather be sitting by the waterfall composing poetry?

  “You must do something for fun now and then,” she said, and he could have sworn that her tone was almost flirtatious.

  “I go riding. That’s fun. Oh, and the occasional ball.” He grinned and imagined her in a sweeping ball gown with low décolletage. He had to stop thinking about her breasts. “Perhaps you’ll be at the next ball in the neighborhood,” he said with more than a little hope.

  “I doubt it.” There was regret in her voice, but he couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t be there. He’d invite her himself if he had to, though being engaged to Dinah that might prove problematic. He’d have Dinah invite her. That would work.

  She took another sip of her wine. “Besides, I don’t think I know any of the dances.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” Every girl he knew had at least enough in the way of dance lessons to get successfully through a ball. But perhaps it was another clue that she was not who she said she was.

  “I can teach you.” He took her wine glass from her. “I would not want you to be at a disadvantage when you find yourself surrounded by beaus at a ball.”

  Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink. “Oh, I hardly imagine that would happen.”

  “I’ll teach you anyway.” He set the glasses carefully on the blanket.

  “We’ll start with a waltz.” He put one hand lightly on her waist and took hold of her hand. She was not wearing gloves, and the warm smoothness of her hands made his heart beat faster. He took a breath to steady himself. He was just showing her dance steps. That was all. He had to remember that.

  “Watch my feet and do what I do. It’s quite simple, really. Remember it’s a one-two-three count.” He counted one-two-three as he took her through the steps. At first he thought she was catching on, and then she tripped over her own feet between two-and-three. He steadied her, feeling the blood rush through his body as he held her a bit closer.

  “You can do this. Anyone can waltz.” At least he assumed anyone could. Even children of ten could waltz.

  “I may prove the exception to that rule.” There was a tone of defeat in her voice.

  “Feel the beat of the music,” he whispered in her ear. “One, two, three…one, two, three” he counted in a sing song.

  It didn’t take long before she got into the rhythm of the dance. They glided around the glade, and he was convinced that there really was music playing, even though they were alone.

  “Are all the dances waltzes?” she asked, as they moved as one through the grass.

  “Oh no.” He almost lost count as he danced. “That would be very boring.”

  Her face darkened at that, and the light went out of her eyes. “Oh.”

  “I will teach you the others,” he said quickly; he didn’t like seeing her so disappointed. “One of my favorites is the Zingirella.”

  “The what?” She stopped dancing and looked at him in incomprehension.

  “You’ve never heard of it?” Clearly she hadn’t. He reluctantly let go of her so he could demonstrate. It was hard without a partner, but he pretended he held someone in his arms while a Zingirella played. “Slide the left foot forward, so, then bring the right foot up behind. Then bounce on the right foot, and bring the left foot behind—being sure to not touch the floor. Then bounce again on the right foot and bring the left foot in front. And then slide the—”

  “Stop!” She laughed and held up her hand. “That’s beautiful and all, but I tripped over my own feet when I tried to waltz. I’ll never be able to do that!”

  “With a little practice,” he assured her, but she shook her head. “I know, how about a Polka?”

  “Roll out the barrel, we’ll have a barrel of fun,” she sang. It sounded like a polka tune, but he wasn’t familiar with that particular one.

  “What song is that?”

  “Beer Barrel Polka,” she answered, but then squinted in uncertainty and bit her lip. “That’s a polka, right?”

  “Of course.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Why was she suddenly so unsure of herself? “I’ve never heard that one before. It’s catchy.”

  “All polkas are catchy,” she said, once more composed. “But I don’t know how to dance to them.”

  “Then I will teach you.” He took her hands in his. “It’s a little hop, then step, step, like such.” He led her in a dance around the meadow until they were both gasping for breath. And then he pulled her close. He could feel her heart beating close to his, and she smelled of roses. Without even thinking about it, his lips met hers. Her soft lips separated to welcome his touch. Every nerve tingled as if he were alive for the first time in years.

  She kissed him back, and the world fell away. There was nothing but the two of them in the spring air. He held her tight. Their heartbeats synchronized as if they were one person. Nothing else existed and he wanted to keep feeling like this forever.

  It took a minute too long for him to come to his senses; he stepped back in horror. What had he done? “I’m sorry! So very sorry. That was unacceptable. I never should have done that. I…please accept my apology.”

  She looked at him in a way that was hard to read. She gently touched her lips. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “It was wrong of me.” But how could something that wrong have felt that right?

  “Dancing does make one forget oneself, doesn’t it?” She gave him a sweet and very forgiving smile.

  Yes, that was a perfect excuse. It was the dancing that made him do it.

  “It does.” He cleared his throat and glanced toward the picnic basket Sally had packed. “Are you hungry? We should eat.”

  “Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”

  Sam tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her back to the blanket. Emily sank to a sitting position, letting her hoops and voluminous skirts pool around her. He handed her wine glass back to her.

  She took a sip. “Thank you, for dancing with me.”

  They were apparently not going to discuss the kiss. They’d pretend it never happened. Perhaps that was for the best. But he knew he’d never forget it. It was selfish of him, but he hoped she wouldn’t either.

  “My pleasure. I only hope someone has a ball before I have to leave.”

  “Leave?” She looked up at him, confused. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be signing up for the army. I don’t know how much time I’ll have before the company musters out.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t sound enthusiastic about it.

  “I need to do my duty.” He wasn’t enthusiastic about going either, but there was no point in dwelling on that.

  “Oh! Of course.”

  He put some of Sally’s fried chicken on a plate and handed it to her. They ate with the rushing of the waterfalls their musical accompaniment. It was peaceful and refreshing. He wished he could do it every day. They didn’t talk much while they ate, but he was sure to keep her wine glass full. One way or another, he would find out her story.

  By the t
ime the bottle was empty, all his inhibitions had fled. He leaned in close to her, and although he was tempted to kiss her again, he merely whispered, “Who are you really, Emily Parks and where did you come from and what are you doing here?”

  She looked at him with wide open eyes. “I really am Emily Parks, I came from the future, and I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  The future?

  He sat back and stared at her. Clearly, he had let her drink too much wine. He’d wanted an honest answer from her and what he got was something out of a novel.

  She recoiled from him almost as soon as she’d spoken, her hand going to her mouth as if to try to recall the words.

  He watched various emotions flit across her face from upset and confused to resignation until finally her features settled into a look of defiance.

  “You’re serious?”

  “I am,” she said. “I was at a wedding in the twenty-first century and I went to sit by the fish pond and a fog came and next thing I knew the wall crumbled away and I fell in the water and when I got out, apparently I had slipped back in time. I don’t know how it happened. I’m not sure how to get back. I thought silver would make the difference. I’m not sure.”

  The future. It wasn’t possible. But all the questions he had about her mysterious appearance and strange behavior were answered by that impossibility.

  Tears rolled down her face. His heart nearly broke for her. If what she said was true, then she must be so scared and lonely. If it wasn’t true, the truth must be bizarre indeed. Either way, this was clearly a girl in need of his protection and help. He fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She accepted it gratefully and wiped her face.

  “You don’t believe me.” She sniffled.

  Did he believe her? It was impossible, but yet, why on earth would she lie about something like that?

  “It is hard to believe.” He didn’t want her to think he didn’t believe her, but did he? Could he believe something that was clearly impossible simply because he had come alive when he kissed her?

  “Agreed.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulder, getting herself under some semblance of control. “If it hadn’t happened to me, I wouldn’t believe it.”