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I’d seen too many men fall into despair as they reminisced about where they had come from.
It would be there when we got back. Or it wouldn’t. There was nothing we could do about it now.
But right now I was here to investigate the spying accusation.
My mission was quite simple, all in all.
“I saw a young lady getting off a boat at your dock. Is she here now?”
And so much for my clear mission.
I didn’t know who I thought I was fooling.
In my mind, I’d already cleared this man and his family from being spies.
Now all I cared about was the girl.
CHAPTER 7
IVY
I’d stood beside the door and listened to the commotion at the door.
It wasn’t that I wanted to know these people’s business. It was just that if anyone knew anything about Andrea, then I wanted to know it.
When the man had come inside, I’d stepped back, out of view.
By the time the woman I now knew to be Mrs. Becquerel came back into the parlor, I was sitting on the sofa just as she’d left me.
“Did your husband know anything?” I asked. “About my sister?”
“No,” she said, but she seemed distracted now, keeping an eye on the door.
The visitor caused her concern, but for a different reason than he concerned me.
As a trained psychologist, I saw the anxiety and strain on her face.
If the woman had been in character, she was no longer. She was genuinely worried about something.
“You’re worried about something,” I said.
She turned and locked her gaze onto mine.
“Yes,” she said. “A Confederate officer just came inside my home and asked to speak to my husband in private.” She took a breath and continued. “I have two sons in this war. And if anything has happened to either one of them, it will be the death of me. So yes. I am worried.”
“Two sons… in the war.”
“Yes,” she said, warming to the subject. “Both of my boys rode off when the call came. They didn’t hesitate. They’re good soldiers. Loyal to the cause. I have no doubt about that.”
One thing about being a trained psychologist. I could remove my own opinions about someone else’s problems.
“You have every right to be concerned,” I said. “Any mother would be.”
She looked at me, seeming to actually see me for the first time.
“Do you have children?” she asked.
“No,” I said, quickly. “Graduate school…” I shrugged as though that explained everything.
Her brows creased, but she showed no other response other than to turn back to the door.
“Maybe you should go,” I said. “Ask the officer yourself.”
And maybe after they were finished talking about her sons, she could tell the officer about my sister. A selfish thought, but I owned it.
“Yes,” she said. “I should. I have every right to know if he brought information about my sons.”
I nodded. “I’ll wait.”
With obviously renewed determination, Mrs. Becquerel turned on her heel and left me alone again.
The clock chimed the half hour.
I went back to the window and saw that the rain had moved out.
Without the rain, I had no reason to stay here.
I could go back to the boat and report my sister missing. The boat captain would listen to me. He had a record of my sister being a passenger. And… he wouldn’t be able to leave without her.
Moving quickly to take advantage of my time left alone, I tossed the quilt over a chair and slipped out the front door.
The rain had left behind a chill in the air. It didn’t help that my clothes were soaked through and through.
After I walked across the veranda, I stopped at the same column where I’d stood before and scanned the area for Andrea.
No sign of her anywhere.
There were fallen magnolia blossoms scattered across the yard from the storm, but otherwise, there was just a muddy pathway.
I put my hand on the wooden column to steady myself.
The column was smooth. Recently painted. No flakes.
I ran my hand along the column. Had the wind and rain washed away the paint flakes?
No. That didn’t happen.
No matter. I had to get to the boat.
Mud splashed as I reached the ground and slogged my way around the house to the back.
I moved carefully, keeping my gaze focused on the ground until I reached the back yard and had a view of the river.
I froze. My heart was in my throat.
The boat wasn’t there.
Fighting the mud with every step, I started to run.
By the time I reached the edge of the river, I was out of breath.
I jogged three times a week, but I jogged indoors. On a treadmill.
Not only was the mud dragging at my boots, but the air out here felt heavier, making it hard to catch my breath.
The dock was still here, but it was different. Smaller. More basic and even a bit primitive.
I was certain of it.
I looked up the river one way, then down the other.
The captain had left. Without blowing the whistle.
Whirling around, I looked back toward the house. On either side of the house, beyond the oak trees, were fields, as far as the eye could see.
Tobacco fields.
Just like Andrea had said.
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
I remembered the look on her face as she videoed me standing on the veranda at the front of the house. Her expression had been disbelief and shock.
I’d been wrong about Andrea being one of the missing girls.
So wrong.
I was one of the missing girls.
CHAPTER 8
ERIC
“Would you like a whiskey?” Mr. Becquerel asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
I had to remember that I might be an officer, but I was still a guest. And refusing a glass of whiskey would be an offense to his hospitality and station as a respected man.
Mr. Becquerel, it seemed, wasn’t going to be immediately forthcoming with his answer.
A knock at the office door had both of us turning, then standing, as Mrs. Becquerel stepped into the room.
Even though Mrs. Becquerel had raised two sons who were now officers in the Confederate army, she was still beautiful enough that she could be the belle of the ball.
I hope when this war was over, she would be left untouched, but I wasn’t optimistic about that happening.
“Mrs. Becquerel,” Mr. Becquerel said in greeting to his wife.
“I need to have a word with this officer,” she said, ignoring her husband and looking at me.
I nodded, seeing pain and nervousness in her eyes.
“How can I be of assistance, ma’am?”
She clasped her hands together at her waist, sending her hoop skirt swaying backwards.
“I need to know if you have news of my sons.”
She thought I had come bearing bad news of her sons.
It was a logical assumption to make. A logical explanation of why an officer would come to her home in the evening and demand to see the head of the household.
I’d made a classic mistake. The lady was actually the head of the household, not the man.
I should have spoken to both of them.
I had to remedy this.
“Mrs. Becquerel,” I said. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for causing you unnecessary worry about your sons.”
A lady of her station would never show emotion, but I saw the relief spread across her features and the breath that she let out slowly.
“You have other business?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I was sent to inquire about some problems with some men in town.”
I decided to change my tactic. Since Mr. Becquerel wasn’t answering me, I’d turn my question to the lady of the house.
“Did a young lady come here tonight?”
A different kind of alarm was on Mrs. Becquerel’s features now.
“Yes,” she said. “There’s a young lady in our parlor right now. Soaking wet. Talking nonsense.”
“Please excuse me,” I said to Mr. Becquerel.
Then without waiting for his response, I dashed from the room and went straight to their parlor.
There was no young lady. Only a damp blanket left lying across a chair.
She had, indeed, been here, but now she had vanished.
Mr. and Mrs. Becquerel were standing behind me.
I turned. “Do you know where she might have gone?”
“Outside,” Mrs. Becquerel said. “She was asking about her sister. She even went into the rain searching for her.”
Going out the front door and down the stairs, I followed the woman’s footsteps in the mud.
She’d gone around the side of the house to the back yard facing the river.
At first I didn’t see her. The path to the river wasn’t so muddy and didn’t hold evidence of footsteps.
Then I saw her. Crouched on her knees in front of the river, her head down.
Afraid that she might be hurt, I hurried forward.
As I neared her, though, I knew that she wasn’t hurt. She was afraid. And perhaps in some kind of shock. Her hair was damp and plastered against her head. Her clothes were also soaked. Her boots and elbows covered in fresh mud.
Since she knelt on the ground, her dress would be soiled as well.
I stood back, giving her space, as I would a wounded animal.
“Can I be of assistance?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle.
“The boat,” she said, her breath catching in her throat.
I nodded. “I saw the boat.”
She looked up at me and hope spread across her features. “You saw it?”
“Yes.”
“Then it was really here.”
“It was.”
She started to stand and years of breeding had me hurrying to assist her.
When I held out my hands, she placed hers in mine and stood up.
The evening sun shone on her face. She was stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were green like the leaves of a beautiful forest in spring.
“If you saw the boat,” she said, hope in her voice. “then you must have seen my sister.”
“My apologies,” I said. “I only saw you. The boat docked. You stepped off. Then the boat vanished. As did you.”
She put a hand over her eyes, then removed it to look at me. She seemed to have forgotten that I was still holding her right hand.
“How is that possible? How did I vanish? And how did you only see me when my sister was right beside me?”
I’d heard legends about the Becquerel Estate. Legends about ladies appearing out of thin air and disappearing just as quickly. As a logical man, I’d dismissed them. As a man born and raised in New Orleans where magic was to be found on every corner, I respected them.
“I think that perhaps you’re the only one who is supposed to be here,” I said, slowly. “not your sister.”
She straightened, but didn’t pull her hand away.
“Tell me your name,” I said.
“Ivy,” she whispered, looking up at me beneath thick lashes.
Ivy. What a fitting name for such a beautiful young lady.
“I don’t think I’m where I’m supposed to be,” Ivy said.
“Perhaps I can assist you,” I said. “I have a horse.”
She searched my eyes.
“I don’t think you understand. When I got here, there were no fields. Just brambles in fields. And trees.” She swept a hand indicating the whole area. “This land was… different. There were no crops.”
“A trick of the light,” I said, though I had no conviction in my words. I’d tried to convince myself that this woman was a trick of the light. Yet here she was. Flesh and blood. Her hand in mine.
“I don’t think so,” she said, looking at me again.
Her gaze, when turned on mine, was disconcertingly intense. Unsettling even.
“What then?” I asked, the New Orleanian in me fearing the answer.
She took a deep breath. Seemed to brace herself.
“I think I’m from a different time.”
CHAPTER 9
IVY
I had to give the man credit for not flinching. In fact, his reaction was so stoic, I didn’t think he heard me correctly.
I decided to give him time to absorb my words.
“My name is Ivy Lafleur,” I said, thinking he hadn’t heard me before.
He seemed to grab the distraction like a lifeline.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Lafleur,” he said, bowing over my hand like a knight in shining armor. “My name is Lieutenant Eric Dumon.”
“Lieutenant?” I repeated, looking over my shoulder toward the Mississippi River.
There was no boat, but there was a low layer of fog hovering over the water.
I shivered. Not from the cold, but from the eeriness of the wide river.
And the very real possibility that I was stuck here. Alone.
But I’d only heard the steamboat captain’s voice over a loud speaker. I hadn’t actually seen him.
I turned back and looked deep into his blue eyes. Bluer than a clear summer sky.
Being this close to him, feeling the heat of his hand on mine, caught me off guard and was very disconcerting.
“The boat captain?” I asked, though I had a deep visceral feeling that I already knew the answer to the question.
“No ma’am,” he said. “I’m an officer in the Confederate army.”
I looked past him at the fields of tobacco crops. When I’d said I thought I was in the wrong time, I truly had hoped that I was mistaken.
“The Civil War,” I said, softly. It wasn’t really a question or a statement. Simply an acknowledgement to myself. The beginning of an acceptance that I was the one who was lost. Not my sister.
She must be looking for me this very instant. In the future.
“Yes ma’am,” he said.
Thunder rumbled behind us.
“I don’t think this storm is over,” he said. “I should get you inside. See if Mrs. Becquerel has something dry you can wear.”
I nodded. Not knowing what to say. I was at his mercy. His and the people here at the Becquerel Bed and Breakfast.
Without their kindness and understanding, I had no place to be.
He tucked my hand in the crook of his arm and led me back toward the house. There was something comforting about having my hand there on his arm.
There was also something comforting believing that my sister was safe. I would rather be the one missing than to have her missing.
I hated that she would be searching for me, but at least I knew that she was okay. If she were the one who had gone missing, I didn’t think I could survive it.
It was my job to make sure I stayed alive and to figure out how, if it was at all possible, to get back to my own time.
“Do you know the Becquerels well?” I asked.
“I only just met them,” he said.
I looked sharply at him. I was relying upon a stranger to get me help from other strangers.
“No need to worry though,” he said. “I know them by reputation. They’re good people and will do everything they can to help you.”
“You’re leaving then?” I asked.
This man—Eric—was the only one who had seen my boat. He was the only one who understood. What was I to do if he left me here?
“I’m afraid I must,” he said. “I’m on an assignment.”
I bit my lip as I considered my options. If I asked to go with him, I’d be leaving the one place that might hold the key to my return to the future. But if I stayed, then I would truly be alone, not only in a strange time, but among people who had no sense of how I had gotten here.
I stopped and looked at him.
He stopped, too, and faced me.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “You’re the only person who can understand that I’m from the future.”
He looked slightly pale at my words. Perhaps I’d made more of an assumption than I should have. Perhaps not even he understood my plight.
“I can’t take you with me,” he said.
“I know.” I looked up at the windows of the house.
How had this happened? Why? Why me and not my sister?
My sister was the adventurous one. She would write a story about this experience. Make something out of it.
I, on the other hand, was a person of routine. I had my students. My life.
My electricity and other modern conveniences. There would be none of that here. Not even my cell phone.
I would be lost.
I didn’t have an adventurous bone in my body.
“We’ll figure something out,” Eric said. “I’ll stay until we do.”
It was more than I could have hoped for. More than I dared to ask for.
The war didn’t seem to have touched this house yet.
“What year is it?” I asked.
“1863.”
“It’s early,” I said.
“Early?” he looked at me. “You mean early in the war?”
“Yes,” I said. I shouldn’t tell him this.
Wasn’t there some kind of rule about not revealing the future to people in the past?
Then again, what did those people know? The ones who made those rules? They were merely fiction writers. Not people who had actually been in the past.
No one, I decided right then and there, should make rules about things they hadn’t personally experienced.
“How long does the war last?” he asked.
“Four years.”
He looked past me, trying to absorb what I was telling him.
“The war ends April 9, 1865. Lee surrenders to Grant at Appomattox Court House.”
“Who is Grant?” he asked. “And why a court house?”
“Grant is the Union General,” I said. “And Appomattox Court House is, I think, a place.”
