Emily's Song

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Emily's Song Page 19

by Christine Marciniak


  “No.” She wrapped her arm around the child, drawing from her warmth. “I’m afraid I hurt him this time.”

  The little brown eyes opened wide. “Did you whip him?” the child asked in an awed whisper.

  “No, I hit him over the head with a wine bottle.” It was hard to admit. She was not a violent person.

  Sally raised her eyebrows at that but betrayed no other emotion.

  “Is he dead?” Dolly asked as matter of factly as if she were asking if dinner were ready.

  Was he? Sam had said he wasn’t. But what if he died since then? Could she have killed a man? But it was in self-defense. Defense of Sam anyway, that had to count for something. She started to shake again. “I don’t think so.” She wished she sounded more confident.

  “Too bad,” the little girl murmured, snuggling closer.

  Sally gave an exasperated sigh and reached for the girl. “Come out of there, you pesky child. You leave Miss Parks alone now, you hear. And we don’t go wishing people dead.”

  “Not even bad people?” Dolly looked up with big innocent brown eyes.

  “Not even bad people.” Sally answered, but there seemed to be a certain lack of conviction in her tone, and Emily understood her ambivalence. Would it really be so bad if Wilkins were dead?

  “Now off to bed with you.”

  Emily wouldn’t have minded having the small warm body snuggled against her for comfort, but she knew better than to interfere. Dolly climbed off the couch and obediently headed out of the room.

  “You need anything else?” Sally asked, a solicitousness in her voice that was new. She had apparently softened to her since Emily had invaded her kitchen earlier tonight. “Some brandy maybe?”

  “That would be nice, thank you.” Emily pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Where was Sam? Should she go look for him? Would he come back to her? Had she somehow messed everything up between them?

  Between them. What could possibly be between them? Except, she felt a warmth deep inside when she thought of him that she didn’t remember ever feeling before. What was that? It couldn’t be love? Could it?

  Sally placed a glass of brandy in her hand. “I’ll send Beck to you.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother.” It would be nice to have someone sit with her, but she didn’t want people ordered about for her benefit.

  “Mister Sam wanted to make sure you are taken care of, and that’s what we’re going to do.” She hustled out of the room.

  Beck came in and stirred up the fire, pushing the wrought iron poker into the dying embers, sending up glowing sparks of light. The fire flared up and she put some wood on it to feed it.

  Emily took another sip of her brandy, which had an amazing warming effect, while Beck stood by the fire, watching.

  “It probably be good if you were to head on home to your own time now, don’t you think?” Beck’s eye were bright and eager. “There’s too much trouble for you here.”

  Especially if the overseer died. She should go home. She wanted to go home. She kept trying. Nothing worked.

  “I can be ready whenever you are. I just need time to say goodbye to my mama.”

  Emily was startled out of her reverie. She’d never gotten around to telling Beck how future generations might be impacted. She opened her mouth to explain, still not sure what to say, when her gaze caught on the necklace Beck wore.

  She was sure Beck hadn’t been wearing it before, she would have remembered. A new set of shivers went through her, and she took a gulp of her brandy.

  She remembered when she had first seen that necklace, a flat round, pink and white stone with a hole in the middle and a leather thong through it, on Dayna’s neck. “That’s an amazing necklace, where did you get it?” she had asked.

  Dayna had fingered the stone and grinned broadly. “Don’t tell my mother I have it, she’d have a cow. This belonged to her great-great-grandmother Rebecca. The story goes that she had it when she was a slave, one of her few personal possessions.”

  Emily stared at that same necklace now, around Beck’s neck. That settled it, she absolutely couldn’t let Beck go to the future. If she did, Dayna and her whole family might cease to exist. There had to be another way to help her. But first, she had to try to explain.

  “Beck.” Emily licked her lips tasting the brandy on them, as she tried to think of how to start. “Is that short for Rebecca?”

  “Not yet,” Beck answered, standing tall. “It’s just a short name, but I vow, if I’m ever free I’m going to call myself Rebecca, because that is a powerful dignified name.”

  “It is.” She took a deep breath. She did not feel up to having this conversation right now. “Sit down next to me, please.” She patted the seat next to her. Beck did, but with obvious hesitation, sitting on the very edge of the sofa and poised to jump up should anyone come in.

  “My best friend is the descendant of slaves.” Saying the words, while sitting here with an actual slave gave it all new meaning. She’d known the truth of Dayna’s history for years, but had never really internalized what that meant. “She told me a story once of her great-great-great Grandmother who escaped from slavery. Her name was Rebecca, and she used nutmeg as a secret ingredient in cinnamon buns. She also had a necklace, exactly like yours. I’ve seen it before, around my friend, Dayna’s neck.”

  Beck clutched at the necklace, but her face was completely still. Finally after a very long moment she said, “You think I’m her great-great-great grandmother?”

  “I think so.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “I can’t be sure of course, but it does seem like it.” If she was wrong was she denying Beck a chance at freedom? But what if she were right?

  “I can’t wait to meet her!” Beck said, delight shining in her voice.

  Emily took a fortifying sip of brandy. There was no easy way to say this.

  “I don’t think you can.” A lump formed in her throat. She didn’t want to destroy Beck’s dreams, but she couldn’t risk Dayna. “If you go forward in time before you have any children here then she won’t exist.”

  “Oh,” Beck thought about that a second and then shrugged. “Too bad for her, I guess. When can we leave?”

  “Beck!” Tears pricked Emily’s eyes. “I can’t take you. It’s not only Dayna that won’t exist but her ancestors, too, and cousins. One of her uncles is a doctor who won some prize for medical advancements. You can’t take all those people out of the world.”

  Beck’s eyes widened, and she fingered the pendant around her neck. “All those people are mine?”

  “They are.” Perhaps she was finally getting through to her.

  “And she says I escape?” The words were barely above a whisper.

  “Yes.” She put the brandy snifter down and breathed a little easier. It was a relief to be able to give some good news.

  “Do you know how?”

  Emily stared at her blankly. How? She had never asked. How could she not have asked? But maybe Dayna didn’t know. Chances were Dayna did know though, and Emily hadn’t simply thought to ask.

  “I don’t know, I’m sorry. But I can help you, if you have ideas. I don’t know enough about everything that goes on here to come up with my own plan, but I’ll gladly help you if I can.” She wanted to reach out and touch Beck, to comfort or reassure, like she would if it were Dayna sitting next to her, but didn’t know how the action would be received, so she clutched at the blanket instead.

  “So, you’re saying you won’t take me to the future, but you will help me escape.” Beck wrung her fingers together in her lap.

  Emily watched those anguished fingers, those work rough, slender fingers. Why couldn’t there be easy answers to any of this? “Yes, if you want my help.”

  “I’d rather go to the future.” She wasn’t giving up on this easily.

  “But, your people!” Emily tried again to get Beck to see why it wouldn’t work. “You are going to have many distinguished descendants. You can’t let them
down.”

  “Tell me about these descendants of mine.” Beck leaned forward, her fingers still wound tight.

  What did she know about the relatives on Dayna’s mother’s side. She picked up the brandy snifter and had another sip while she collected her thoughts. “Okay, I said there’s a respected doctor. There are also a few college professors and a journalist. There are lawyers and accountants, and I think one of Dayna’s uncles was a mayor of his town for a while.”

  “Mayor! A black man?” Beck snorted in derision.

  “Yes!” Emily needed to make sure Beck believed her. “And they are all because of you. Because you escape and start a family and teach your children how to be brave and strong and determined like you are.”

  Beck gave her a sideways glance. “You’re laying the flattery on a bit strong, there, Miss Emily, but I get your point.”

  The back door opened, and the thud of boot steps sounded on the wooden floors.

  Beck jumped up, smoothing her skirt. “I best be going.” She hurried from the room, getting to the door as Sam came in.

  He rushed to her, sitting by her side, but not touching her. She yearned for his touch but clutched her glass to keep from reaching out to him.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was harsh with emotion.

  “A bit shook up.” She took a sip of brandy. There was definitely a soothing restorative quality to it. “I can’t believe I hit him.”

  “I can’t either.” His eyes caught hers and she felt she could get lost in them. “I’m very grateful.” He swallowed and broke eye contact, as if it were too much for him. “What’s that you’re drinking, brandy?”

  “I believe so. Sally poured it for me.” She hated that her voice quavered. She wanted to appear strong and independent, not weak and needy.

  He got up and poured himself a glass. He stood for a moment, staring into the fire, his back to her, and she studied the lines of his body, the slim hips and shoulders, the wavy dark hair. He was not built like a fighter. What would this war do to him? A shiver ran through her, because of course, she knew what the war would do to him. It would kill him. And a very nice lady would show people his portrait hanging in the hall and say this is “Samuel Marshall, he died in the Civil War.” How could she have said it with such calmness, when the very memory of the words were ripping Emily’s heart out?

  After a long moment, he came back and sat beside her on the sofa, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat emanating from him. “Tell me what happened. Earlier. With Wilkins.”

  She wanted to tell him, she needed to tell him, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she did so.

  “He surprised me. I was coming from the outhouse, and he accosted me and told me I’d pay for him being whipped. Then he grabbed me and kissed me. It was horrible.” Her voice broke, and she found herself reaching out to Sam. He took her hand in his large, warm one and she continued. “He tied my hands behind my back and dragged me to his house. Then he gagged me and tied my feet. I was so scared and helpless, and I’ve never felt so powerless before.” Sam’s hand tightened on hers and she took strength from him.

  “Did he violate you?” His voice cracked, betraying his concern.

  Violate her? Of course. He grabbed her and tied her up and gagged her and kissed her against her will, but she was pretty sure Sam meant rape.

  “No. But the threat was implicit.” She took a deep breath to steady herself. “He went and got Dolly and said that he could do anything to me, and if I told you about it he would punish Dolly, then he smacked her across the face so I would know he was serious. He even told me he would hurt her if I so much as spoke to you. And he said that if I found a way to protect Dolly, he’d hurt someone else. I didn’t want to be the reason someone gets whipped. I really didn’t!” Tears came unbidden and she had to stop.

  “No one’s getting whipped.” He squeezed her hand. “Dolly’s a brave little girl. She told me everything that she knew about what happened. That’s why I was confronting Wilkins.” He took her glass from her hand and placed it, with his, on the side table. He wrapped his arms around her and whispered into her hair. “Remember, none of this is your fault. Wilkins is a vile man, and if he hurts someone it’s on him, not you. But he won’t hurt anyone. I give you my word.”

  Everything would be okay. She trusted Sam on this. It was true that she didn’t know him well, but this was his time and his place and now that he knew, he would make things better.

  “I was so scared, Sam,” she breathed the words out in relief, her mouth against the smooth linen of his shirt. “So very scared and the worst part was that if I gave into his demands and didn’t tell you, you would be hurt and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

  “Shush, it’s okay now,” he murmured, smoothing her hair. “You’re safe with me.”

  She relaxed further into his arms. She was safe. She was protected.

  “What are you going to do to Wilkins?” Now that she was in his arms and could relax it was time to worry about the particulars.

  “For now, he’s locked in the smokehouse and there is a guard outside. Tomorrow I’ll take him into town and turn him over to the sheriff.” He cleared his throat and added apologetically, “You may have to explain what he did to you.”

  “I don’t mind telling about it, if it keeps him locked up.” She’d rather not have to recount the incident, but she’d tell everyone if it would keep the creep behind bars. “What about an overseer?”

  “I’m giving the job to one of the bucks. Marcus can do it.”

  “Man.” She stiffened in his arms.

  “What?” He moved back from her a little so he could see her face.

  “Not a ‘buck’,” she explained. “That’s what you call a deer or some other animal. I’m assuming Marcus is not a deer.”

  “No, but he’s a negro.” It was clear by his befuddled expression that he didn’t see the problem at all.

  “A man,” she repeated. “He’s a man. Call him that.”

  There was a pause, and she wondered if she had offended him, but then he said. “You’re right, of course. I never thought of it that way before.”

  “Don’t you think of Tobias as a man?” It was clear that Tobias was not only his valet, but one of his best friends, almost a brother.

  “I think of him as Tobias, but yes, I do think of him as a man. You make me think, Miss Emily Parks, I thank you for that.”

  Just the romantic words she always wanted to hear from a man. She made him think. Not that it was a bad thing, but she’d like to make someone swoon instead one of these days.

  He pulled her close again and whispered into her hair. “May I kiss you?”

  “Please,” she answered.

  His mouth found hers, and she could taste the brandy he’d sipped, and a hint of tobacco. His lips were soft and his tongue, searching. It was safe and warm and exciting and not at all frightening or imposing as it had been when Wilkins forced himself on her. She wanted to melt into Sam, to become one with him. She held him tightly and his arms were wrapped around her as if he never meant to let go. As the kiss deepened, she let her hands roam his back feeling the softness of his shirt and the strength of the muscles underneath. His hands, also started to move, caressing her softly. But then Sam stopped, he took his mouth from hers and said, “I cannot take advantage of you.”

  “It’s not taking advantage if I don’t object.” She could barely catch her breath to answer him.

  “Just the same.” Sam took a deep breath, still holding you tight. “I think you should leave.”

  The words were so unexpected, so hard, that she wasn’t sure she heard them properly.

  She pushed away from him so she could look into his face, but the anguish she saw there didn’t explain anything. “Leave? But I have nowhere to go!”

  “I mean”—he wiped his hand across his face—“I want to marry you.”

  “What?” She glanced at her glass of brandy bu
t she was pretty sure it didn’t have hallucinogenic properties. Sam suddenly knelt in front of her, taking both her hands in his. Leave here? Marry him? Her thoughts bounced around the room, not sure where to land.

  “I used to be good with words.” He smiled crookedly at her, his eyes holding hers and not letting go. “Emily. I can’t think of anything in the world that would make me happier than to spend the rest of my life with you, but I am going off to war, and I don’t know if I’ll come back…”

  Her face must have given something away.

  “You know something, don’t you?”

  She shook her head, tears blurring her vision.

  “Okay then, that settles it.” He took a deep, steadying breath and swallowed. “I won’t come back. I can’t ask you to stay here, trapped in this world, this time that is not your own, when I can’t be here for you. You need to go back.”

  “I don’t even know if I can.” He wanted to marry her. Did he actually say that? Was this a proposal? Was she allowed to accept or had it already been rescinded as not being practical?

  “I found something out,” Sam said. “It seems there’s a magic spell or something. Did you say a magic spell when you came through?”

  “No, but Beck told me about it,” she said, not stopping to think if she shouldn’t mention Beck’s involvement. “I tried saying it when I went in last time. But it didn’t make a difference.”

  “Were these the words?” Sam closed his eyes and concentrated on the what he was about to say. “Lorska la loon romp leet le tong, Fair John, A March ee sur lee face der lumier, a un otre mo mant.” Yes, that sounded like what Beck had said, what she had repeated when she’d stepped into the pond, but yet it sounded slightly different when he said it.

  “Say that again.” Now she closed her eyes and listened carefully.

  He repeated the words slowly, but that didn’t help.

  “Say it quickly, running the words together.”

  He did and she opened her eyes.

  “It’s French!”

  “What?” He looked at her in surprise. “That’s not French. It’s nonsense words.”

 

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