Now and Forever (87 page)

But Emilie didn't have Rebekah's faith. All she had was a dark sense of foreboding that settled across her shoulders like a mantle of lead. There was so much Rebekah didn't know, so much Emilie had never told her.

So many times she had wanted to tell her friend the truth, but the words always died in her throat. How could she expect Rebekah to believe that the couple she had taken under her wing in the summer of 1776 had traveled across the centuries to be there?

Besides, the twentieth century was nothing but a distant dream to Emilie now. There was nothing there she wanted, nothing there she missed. Everything she valued in the world existed in this time and place.

But what if there was a way to go back?
A small voice asked as she cleaned oatmeal from her daughter's chubby hands.
Think of how much more you could give them in the twentieth century.

"No," she whispered fiercely. "Never!"

Sara Jane looked up at her, bright blue eyes wide with question. Emilie kissed the child's fingers as her heart thundered inside her chest.

She wouldn't go back, not even if the balloon landed right there on the front porch and promised she could pick up her life exactly where she'd left off, but this time with her husband and family by her side. She was part of something important here. Not only did she contribute to the cause of freedom with her work for the spy ring, she was part of a real community of people who understood the importance of liberty in a way her world of the twentieth century had long forgotten. She wanted this world for her children. She wanted them to grow up without drive-by shootings and crack dealers and the bone-deep pessimism that permeated every corner of life in the 1990s.

But what about Zane?
that small voice continued.
Are you sure he'd feel the same way?

It was one thing to make the best of an odd situation. It was another thing to embrace it, knowing there was a means of escape. He'd wanted to leave from the very beginning. She remembered the morning the balloon had appeared by the lighthouse, how she'd believed that he would leave her and return to the world they'd left behind. Did he ever regret his decision? What would he do if he had a second chance?

The cloud formation was fainter than yesterday, but it was still there. She thanked God there was no sign of the hot-air balloon, but she knew in her heart that it was only a matter of time before it appeared. She had to find Zane before it was too late, before fate made the choice for both of them.

"Papa!" Andy pointed toward the hallway. "Papa home."

"Listen," said Rebekah, a bright smile wreathing her tired face. "Footsteps! They're back."

Emilie leaped to her feet and ran into the hallway.

"G'mornin', Emilie." Timothy Crosse, Rebekah's son-in-law, stood in the hallway knocking snow from the soles of his boots. "Got that flour you ladies been askin' for, and at a fair price, too. Hope that means you'll be makin' some of your biscuits."

"Zane and Josiah," she said, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket. "They went out last night and haven't come back yet. Have you seen them?" She didn't care if Timothy thought they'd gone out whoring. She just wanted an answer.

"Ain't seen either one," Timothy said, "not since t'other day near the church. Lots of snow out there, Em. Reckon they're findin' it real hard to get home." His cheeks reddened as he obviously thought of another reason that two men wouldn't make it home at night. "Wouldn't be any real cause t' worry."

She drew in a deep breath and brushed snow from the young man's hair. "You must be freezing," she said. "Why don't you have some hot cider? Rebekah made corn bread this morning and it was grand."

"Don't mind if I do," Timothy said, obviously glad the topic of conversation had shifted to corn bread. "Big commotion north of Franklin Ridge," he said as he followed her into the kitchen. "Say the Redcoats caught themselves a big red ball that floated over the trees."

The blood pounded so hard in Emilie's ears that she could barely make out Timothy's words.
No! Please, God, no!

"A big, red ball floating over the treetops?" Rebekah laughed as she poured a cup of cider for her son-in-law. "Sounds to me like the stores of rum are fast being depleted in Franklin Ridge."

"They swear up and down 'tis true," Timothy went on, taking the cider from Rebekah with a nod of acknowledgment. "Even went so far as to say there were people floating with it."

"People"?" Emilie couldn't keep the sharp note of fear from her voice. "Who?"

Timothy eyed her curiously. So did Rebekah. Emilie refused to meet her friend's eyes.

"Some say a man and a woman," Timothy ventured, obviously uncomfortable. "Some say two women."

Rebekah threw back her head and laughed. "The day we fly like birds over the trees is the day you can bury me six feet deep. Such nonsense!"

Timothy laughed as well, but Emilie didn't. It wasn't nonsense, not even close, but how could she expect her eighteenth-century counterparts to understand that? The advent of hot-air ballooning wouldn't dawn for another few years, and then it would be in France.

Not New Jersey.

Not today.

"Would you excuse me?" Emilie said, struggling to sound matter-of-fact. "I have to fetch my knitting."

"Emilie?" Rebekah forced Emilie to meet her eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"Just tired, 'Bekah. I don't sleep well when Zane isn't home."

Rebekah nodded, but Emilie knew her friend suspected something.
I'd tell you if I could, 'Bekah,
she thought as she hurried from the kitchen,
but you'd never believe me.

Emilie grabbed her cloak and gloves from the peg near the front door. Her boots waited on the front porch. Quietly she slid open the drawer to the secretary she shared with Rebekah and removed a sheet of parchment. She dipped the quill into the inkwell and penned a note to her dearest friend.

Rebekah was the finest woman Emilie had ever known. If something happened to her and Zane, the children would be left in kind and loving hands.

She rested the note on top of Rebekah's sewing basket, then retrieved the small felt pouch of gold coins from her own basket, beneath her embroidery tools. Her heart ached with longing to kiss her children, but that would feel too much like goodbye.

And this
wasn't
goodbye. She refused to even consider that possibility.

She slipped from the house and, minutes later, guided Timothy's horse-drawn cart down the snowy lane toward Franklin Ridge.

Chapter Fourteen

It seemed to Patrick as he rode toward the meeting place near Jockey Hollow that the Almighty had conspired to test him to the very limits of his endurance.

Snow fell with unceasing fury, blinding his vision and making it difficult for his horse to gain purchase on the slippery ground. His heavy woolen coat did little to shield him from the bitter winds or from the harsh bite of his conscience. He told himself that it was for the greater good that he stayed safe and well-fed while others fought the enemy, but on days like this he found it difficult to live within his own skin.

Rutledge and Blakelee had been taken prisoner by the British, and it was Patrick who bore the blame in the eyes of the world as they had planned that he would.

Word of Patrick's treachery had already reached Franklin Ridge, and the chilly smiles of the townspeople he passed had frozen solid as the icy pounds. The Continental army teetered on the verge of collapse, and he sensed deep in the black emptiness of his soul that the worst was yet to come.

The thought was horrific enough to almost make him laugh. Indeed, how much worse could matters get? Already a new pair of boots commanded more than many farmers earned in a year. The cost of a new horse would support ten families. Did no one else see the excess that threatened the framework of the Revolution? Did no one else care?

He found the righteous anger of the townspeople amusing. How many of them were willing to risk their own comfort to aid the patriots about whom they wept? Quick to weep false tears and condemn all and sundry for imagined misdeeds, nary a citizen of Franklin Ridge saw fit to step forward and offer assistance.

His anger increased with each mile he traveled. The thick woods north of town were being chopped down, the logs dragged to the encampments to be used to build huts that would house the enlisted men. He wondered how it was that General Washington had managed to keep them from breaking rank and fleeing back to their farms and families in the face of almost certain annihilation at the hands of the Redcoats. And he wondered if it would ultimately be worth the sacrifice.

Death was everywhere. He saw it every day in the tear-stained faces of the men and women left behind. He smelled it in the air, heard it in the crack of rifle shots echoing through the dark night. And all for a cause that might already be lost.

#

"What are we going to do?" Cook demanded of Dakota as General McDowell's men set up cots in the parlor and the dining room.

"I don't know," Dakota said. "Do they have the right to take over like this?" Of course, she knew the answer to that. They had every right in the world. This was war and the normal rules of society no longer applied.

"The mister will be mad as a hatter." Cook poked the rising lump of bread dough with an angry forefinger. "Joseph heard one of them say the general wants the library for a meeting room."

"Not the library!" Dakota exclaimed. How could she get her hands on that list of names if the place was knee-deep in soldiers?

"That's what I told him," Cook said, high color staining her cheeks, "but he wouldn't listen to the likes of me." She tilted her head in the direction of the library. "But he'd listen to you."

"Me?" Dakota made a face. "Why on earth would the general listen to me?"

"You're the lady of the house," Cook said, eyebrows raised all the way up to her mobcap.

"I'm the lady of the house?" Dakota muttered as she strode toward the library. She didn't feel like the lady of the house. She felt like exactly what she was: a woman looking for a way out.

She prayed General McDowell was a trusting sort, because she wasn't sure she could pull it off.

The general turned out to be charming, attentive and understanding—all the things Devane was not—but, unfortunately, he also had a will of iron.

"I understand your concerns, madam," he said in a lazy voice that had more than a touch of London nibbling around the edges, "and I would like to address them with your husband, if I may. Patrick and I are friends of long standing." He made a show of glancing about the room. "And where might the good fellow be?"

Beats me,
she thought, offering him a demure, poor-little-me smile. The last time she'd seen Devane, he'd been stomping his way down the hall, looking ready to do battle with the world. "Cook informed me that my husband has gone for a ride."

"Madam, there is a full foot of snow in the hills and more coming. Now, I know Patrick is a most physical fellow—I can remember him riding to hounds on the most ungodly day—but you must admit that, even for so hale a fellow as your dear new husband, this is hardly riding weather."

She deepened her dimple, praying she wouldn't burst out laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation. "My husband cares not about the weather."

"And what pressing engagement tears him from the side of his new bride?" It was said with a wink, but Dakota sensed more than passing curiosity behind the question. And who could blame him. Few grooms would prefer a blizzard to their bride.

She lowered her eyes, the demure and blushing new wife plotting her next lie. "My husband has his concerns," she said sweetly, "as I have mine—to make him happy."

McDowell nodded, a benevolent smile on his face. "The way it should be, madam. The issue of the library will wait awhile longer."

Unbelievable,
she thought in amazement. Either men had gotten a lot smarter by the twentieth century or she'd missed out on something big time. Were they all this easy to manipulate or had she stumbled across a particularly malleable bumch?

She realized he was still talking.

". . . to celebrate your marriage."

Her smile widened. "How wonderful!" She hadn't the foggiest idea what he was talking about but unless someone had just suggested a trip to the guillotine, "How wonderful!" usually did the trick. Maybe a career in diplomacy wasn't that farfetched after all.