The Will of Time Read online

  "Okay," she said, as the proverbial light bulb lit in her mind. "I'll tell you what you want to know."

  "That's more like it now."

  "Speak up, then missy."

  "Well, I have seen people, coloreds, in a room in the cellar. I don't know if they were hiding, or something else. You must not tell anyone I told you this!" She shrugged her shoulders and they loosened their grips, but the brutes hovered above her head still, listening.

  "Anyway, if you go down to the cellar, check all the doors. You have to look closely, because I'm not sure which door it is," she said. At least that much was the truth. Her imagination conjured up 'Let's Make A Deal,' with something hidden behind every door.

  "And this is the truth?" The punishing grip eased.

  "Yes." She was able to back away from their mis-trusting glares.

  "Shouldn't we tie her 'case she's lying?" The short one seemed concerned.

  "Nah.. she's not going anywhere. Are ya?" The other grabbed Leia by the neck, squeezing with considerable force to emphasize his meaning.

  She could barely croak out the words, "I'll be here." He released her, shaking her once for good measure. Leia felt her head could have snapped right off its stem.

  Stomping in haste, the men were through the back door to the house before Leia's vision had cleared. She was shaking, and knew she had to find a hiding place...And pray.

  "Miz Leah?"

  Leia looked up to see Hettie approaching from the side of the house.

  "Miz Leah? You all right?"

  "Yes, yes Hettie. We have to hide. Those men may come charging back out here."

  "What they doin' inside?"

  "I sent them to the cellar." She stopped, not wanting to explain her irrational hopes that the men would not return. "C'mon," she said, pulling Hettie by the hand. "We have to be sure." The women went into the hall, to the dining room, and paused on either side of the door to the cellar.

  "I don't hear nothing," Hettie whispered.

  "Good." Leia rubbed her neck where they'd squeezed it.

  The maid caught sight of Leia's torn sleeve and red, finger-printed neck. "Miz Leah, you're hurt!"

  Leia put her finger to her lips. "Shh." She opened the door, peering cautiously down the dark stairwell. The only light was cast by Hettie's small lantern, and it did not reach past the stairs. Hettie had grabbed two knives from the kitchen. They waited.

  The minutes felt like hours. Leia and Hettie allowed themselves to sit on the dining room floor. The tension lessened only because their energy was easing away from their tired bodies.

  "Where'd they go?" Hettie asked, finally noticing that time had passed and the sun had risen quite fully on the new day.

  "Far away, I think," Leia answered. This had been the longest night of her entire life. Not only had her husband rejected her overtures of love, but he had sent her away, into the dark and dangerous night. ...And it had proven dangerous, she thought, rubbing her shoulder. Her neck and arms promised to glow black and blue before long.

  Leia and Hettie both dozed off in their sitting positions, the dining room walls absorbing their stress like a sponge. The aroma of fresh brewing coffee forced Leia's eyes open.

  "Coffee? Hettie, wake up, someone's in the house."

  "Must just be Sarny. Said she'd be by today to help me make soap," Hettie said, trying to rise on obviously stiffened legs.

  Leia giggled, barely rising on her own weak limbs. "We're getting old, Hettie. Umm, that smells great. I need some."

  Leaning on each other, the two rumpled women moved toward the kitchen, aware of, but ignoring the sound of cannon fire in the distance.

  "I've been meaning to ask you, Hettie. Have you ever heard from your brother since his escape?" She purposely used the term, hoping Hettie would reveal some of what she knew.

  The older woman just snorted, and leaned heavier on Leia.

  "Hettie, I would like some paper and a pen," Leia said to her friend. "Before the McGarlands get home."

  "Do you need to write a letter, Miz Leah?"

  "Of sorts." She didn't explain further her plan to hide a note in a bottle.

  Hettie handed her crude writing materials. "So you can read 'n write?"

  "Of course. Most women in the...the city of Baltimore can. Does this mean you can't?"

  Hettie didn't answer.

  "I'm sorry. I can help you learn. I don't have specific teaching skills but I can try, if you like."

  Hettie smiled and turned away, and Leia was afraid she had insulted her friend. She would find a way to teach Hettie, maybe tomorrow they'd do the alphabet.

  Leia considered several possible messages she could write and plant in the cellar. Perhaps, with a little luck, someone in the future could find it and then her. Coming so close to possible fatal injury today, she'd decided she must have leave some sort of message. Even if it was found after it was too late for her, someone would understand where Leia McGarland had disappeared to.

  What message would be appropriate? To whose attention should it be directed, or did that even matter? Leia had no idea. She just did not want to die in 1863 and have no one appreciate her sacrifice. Brant had ruined any hopes she'd had to remain in this time and live happily ever after, or to escape with him back to the future. Now, seeking escape seemed much more important.

  Baltimore's macadam streets, already saturated with June heat, bounced wavy illusions as the heat rose in front of Sara. She stood in front of the converted row house store front, the glass window proudly displaying the neon letters spelling "Sister Maura," and an outline of an open palm. Sara climbed the four marble steps, Baltimore landmarks, and knocked.

  The door swung inward immediately, opened by a slender girl with Spanish features and a young face.

  "I'm Sara Smith. I have an appointment with Sister Maura?"

  The girl introduced herself as Maura, and ushered her customer into the dim room. Sara was surprised, and slightly disappointed, that no one was dressed in flowing robes, gypsy dresses or turbans. Sister Maura invited her to sit at a small, round table, draped in purple cloth, then lit a black candle that gave off a heavy, sweet fragrance. Incense burners around the room added to the intense smell. Sara thought the combination should be considered a drug.

  "You're worried about your friend," Maura began, taking Sara's hands in hers.

  "Yes, like we discussed on the phone." That had been no secret.

  "Close your eyes. Concentrate on her face."

  Sara tried to comply, but she was nervous holding hands with this unusual stranger. She checked to make sure her purse was still beside her chair, on the floor, then closed her eyes. She pictured Leia's small boned, heart shaped face, straight nose and even straighter blonde hair. Then those thick brown eyebrows. She recalled how happy Leia had been in high school when heavy, unplucked eyebrows became the latest style.

  "She is pretty, no? Blonde? Short?"

  "Yes."

  "Ah," Maura said, then hummed a little tune. "Your friend, she has gone to someone just like me for help. She needs you, too, and she feels trapped."

  "I knew it!" Leia couldn't be kidnapped and have gone to a psychic.

  "I see a railway station. The train's coming, very blurry, no sounds. Silent. The train's full of black people; men, women, some children. The last car is full of white men in uniforms."

  Sara gripped Maura's hands tighter. "Is Leia on the train, Maura?"

  "No, no, she's trapped on the other side of the tracks. She's wearing an old-fashioned, long blue, no, black dress, and a wedding ring."

  Sara nodded. "Yes, yes, that's what she was wearing when she disappeared."

  "Good. She's not in danger, but someone she cares about is."

  "Oh, no. Tell me, Maura, where can I find my friend?"

  "It's not so much where she is. It's more when she is." Maura broke the link and wiped her brow.

  "I don't understand," Sara said, unable to keep the frustration from her voice.

  "Look for
messages from the past," Maura replied. "That's all I can tell you." The vision is gone. That will be seventy-five dollars, please."

  Chapter 10

  As Leia had expected, Martha had delivered a quite stern lecture on the perils of adventuring out alone at night. Patrick sat in the corner of the parlor, observing the speech and alternately nodding and shaking his head.

  Martha ran out of steam after thirty minutes or so. She gave her final wring of the hands and went to oversee dinner preparations. When the family had returned the night before, Leia and Hettie had already been asleep. Luckily, Leia thought, they hadn't known the women had been up all night the previous evening and couldn't have been roused for anything short of fire.

  Sarny had given a few details that worried Martha, causing Hettie to spill the beans about Leah's nocturnal travels. Now, she was awake and refreshed, and facing Patrick's stern countenance.

  "Leah," he began, not rising from his corner. "I promised William to guard you like a daughter if anything happened to him. You know that. How can I keep this oath if you take on such dangerous pursuits?"

  "I am sorry to put you in that position, sir. It won't happen again. May I ask if you are feeling better?" She looked down at her hands. The only reason she was truly sorry was because Brant hadn't reacted the way she had hoped.

  "Yes, I am. Just a touch of indigestible food, I vow. Now, may I ask you, girl, why you felt the need to follow Brant's unit?" He looked at her without blinking, his gray eyebrows knitted together.

  "Yes sir. I went after Brant because we had argued, and I hadn't told him something I should have before he left." She was pleased to be honest with the man that reminded her of Grandfather. A feeling of warmth flowed from him, as if his brandy poured from his personality, no matter what he was actually saying.

  "Could it be that you love him?"

  "Am I that transparent?"She looked down at her hands.

  "Only to me, child...I'd like you to stay in the house where I can keep my eye on you for a few days. I need to keep you safe for your husband, and I have a feeling you're already planning something or other, you see. Go talk to Hettie. She understands you, too."

  Hettie did not approach the subject of the slave-owners, and Leia thought she knew why. She believed the maid was well aware of the special doorway in the cellar and was most likely frightened by it. The nineteenth century was notoriously superstitious and fearful of anything paranormal. Leia obtained a small piece of paper from the maid, then decided on the message she would leave for the future.

  Martin or Sara/The cellar trapped me in 1863/I'm fine/Searching for home...Leia

  She rolled the tiny paper and slide it into a dark green bottle. After corking it, she took the bottle down to the cellar and placed it on the lowest, most hidden rod of the wine rack. If anyone unintended was to find it, they would not necessarily recognize the name Leia...Or so she told herself.

  With that task complete, Leia turned her attentions to teaching Hettie to read. She needed to devise a way to introduce the subject without insulting her again. Possibly, Hettie could help her with the doorway in exchange for the lessons.

  Patrick was feeling well, much better than the night he spent at the Bauer home. Leia considered going to him and asking about the contents of his will. But how much was a woman allowed to pry in 1863? There was no logical way to explain to him how his decisions would affect her life over a hundred years from now.

  The days grew longer and longer, constantly more tedious for Leia. She spent four or five days.. she lost track...on mind-numbing chores in ninety-eight degree heat. She knew her local weatherman would have cited a heat-index of well over one hundred degrees considering the humidity. Leia was lucky that MaryKatherine loaned her a few short-sleeved dresses, though the entire ensemble still weighed more than her two winter coats combined. Even better, though the dresses were far from being bright in color, at least they weren't black.

  Because she couldn't embroider or knit, Leia tried to help Hettie to keep busy. Every chore was back breaking work, from laundry to cooking to floor scrubbing, but it was the only exercise Leia was getting. She hated to think of her thighs spreading freely under the hoop skirt.

  Continuing reports of fighting in the surrounding areas kept the small family inside and anti-social as June drew to a close. After reading the books Patrick had on architecture, Leia tried her hand at free-sketching. She made several very realistic drawings of split-foyer houses and colonial two-stories, then hid them from view.

  She read aloud to Patrick one evening at his request. The words were long and the action was slow, but the rhythm was perfect for putting the older man to sleep. Leia tucked his blanket under his chin, put out the oil lamp and left him to slumber. She would definitely miss Patrick when she got home.

  Getting home...that search for a doorway back to the 1990's...was Leia's final chore each day. She tried searching at dinnertime, the time of day she had first found it. She tried searching with a wine bottle in her hand, carrying the cool glass with one hand while touching the damp walls with the other. Sometimes she thought she could glimpse a partial outline, but it eluded her every time.

  One evening she gave up in frustration and decided to open the bottle in her handMartin, she thought, as a proverbial candle lit over her head, could very well be Hettie's escaped brother. If the silent railroad was the same thing as the historical underground railroad, then Martin could have been one of the travelers. She would ask Brant about it as soon as he was recovered. Provided, of course, that he recovered and that they were able to carry on a civil conversation.

  Martha and Hettie were up with the sun, bubbling around the house as if they were drops of water the sun had set to boiling. In and out of Brant's sick room, they seemed pleased with their handiwork of the night before. The shoulder wound had been superficial, just a nick, and likely to heal quickly without complications.

  The thigh wound was deeper, but still not the worse she'd ever seen, Martha had declared. As long as the fever didn't set in, which was Martha's understanding of the symptom rather than the cause, Brant should regain his health and walking ability, eventually. In the meantime, Patrick was working on a wooden crutch for Brant to lean on during recuperation.

  Leia watched the women change the dressings, hanging back as they fussed over their patient. Brant was awake and aware, and keeping the pain he felt in check. MaryKatherine brought a broth of chicken, trying to feed Brant a few spoonfuls. Unfortunately, the bed covers sopped up more of the nourishment than the patient.

  Brant glanced her way from time to time, but Leia was not sure if he was pleased or irritated to see her there. She knew the glassiness in his brown eyes was a reflection of physical pain. With a warning to Leia not to upset the patient, as if were a small child, the three nursing musketeers left the room. The heat of the day was full by then, and the humidity swelled through the room like a damp, sticky cloud. Beads of perspiration broke out on Brant's brow, and his forehead grew shiny. Leia moved to mop it, and saw him watching her. Their gazes locked for just a second, and Leia was certain she felt a spark. The static receded quickly, and Leia turned away.

  Her thoughts ran through their last encounter. How happy she'd been to share her feelings for him, and how quick he had been to send her away. It was all a misunderstanding, which she'd been certain they would have time to straighten out, but now he could die. What if she never got a second chance to tell him? Or what if she did, and he rejected her again?

  Leia turned back toward the bed, determined to read whatever emotion was in those dark chocolate eyes beyond the pain. She hoped for just a clue, but when her gaze set on his face, Brant was asleep.

  The casualties were substantial in Westminster, enough so that no doctors could make the trip to Walnut Grove. Once again Leia found herself comparing her situation to a scene from Gone With The Wind, but healing rifle wounds was a far cry from "birthin' babies."

  Patrick obtained a small supply of quinine from the Bau
ers, which he mixed with whisky for Brant. The idea was for the mixture to prevent fevers, as could follow an injury. Penicillin was still in the future, though Leia was not sure exactly when it was first used. She considered herself lucky that the McGarlands of 1863 had even the tiniest inkling about preventing infection.

  "I can't believe you wasted good money on a quack like that. Where's your common sense, Sara?"

  "Jason, sometimes psychics actually help solve crimes, especially missing person cases. So don't chastise me like a child. Besides, do you have a better idea?" Sara tossed her head, hoping he noticed her hair was curled just right today, though her pride hurt by his brash rebuff.

  "Well no," he admitted. "Leia will show up when she's good and ready. Now, will you please go get dressed for the fundraiser?"

  "You're just acting all cold and callous because she wouldn't agree to marry you and split her grandfather's money with you. I know all about it. You've changed, and nothing's so important as your all-mighty dollar. Not even me."

  "Sara, please go get ready. There will be people at this thing that I should meet."

  "I'm tired of these things. They aren't any fun without Leia, and I don't give a fig if you meet the right people."

  Jason's expression softened. "I know, dear, but on the bright side, at least you'll always have something to wear. You always look terrific. And if you don't have just the right little number, you can whip something up. You've almost got your design degree. In fact, I'm going to rent you a nice, choice location in my new mall."

  "New mall? Where is this mall, Jason?" She was immediately suspicious of his plan.

  "Well," he began, a cautious tone in his voice. "I have several sites in mind. The best spot, as you know, is right here in Walnut Grove. Then, right over the state line, there's an estate owned by one of the charities you've done work for. There's a chance they'll turn it over to me, my company, for a shopping center location if I make it historical, with a Civil War theme. Then they get part of the profits. But so far, they haven't made a firm decision. There are a few other locations, but I don't have many details on them yet.