The Christmas Eve Letter: A Time Travel Novel (25 page)

“I don’t know.  Not this.  How did you find Evelyn?”

He folded his arms, staring ahead, his head lifted in mock arrogance.  “You have your secrets, Miss Kennedy, and I have mine.  Let’s just say I have a network of paperboys, street urchins, and a few friends you probably wouldn’t care to meet.”

Eve playfully punched him in the arm.  He turned, feigning shock.  “Brutality will not help you, Miss Kennedy.”

And then they locked gazes, hers open and warm, his filled with want and longing.  He lifted a gentle hand and touched her cool cheek. 

When he spoke, his tone was reflective, his voice feathery soft, filled with his lilting, Irish accent.  “If each could learn as well as I, to profit by my pain, there’s ne’er a man beneath the sky, would ever love again.”

Eve looked at him gently. 

He lowered his hand to his lap and looked out the window.  “Where did that come from?” he muttered to himself.

Eve kept her eyes on him, hearing the steady trot of the horse.  “Yes, where did it come from?”

He refused to look at her.  “Something my grandfather used to say after his dear wife passed.  He was never quite the same.  He died only a few months after she.”

“Do you often think of your wife?”

“I do.  We were married less than two years.  She was English, if you can believe it, from Manchester.  Came over with her mother.”

Patrick turned to Eve, his eyes narrowed.  He had the drawn face of a mourner.  “And what of your parents, Miss Kennedy?  Where are they from?  Is Kennedy your actual name, and please do not lie to me, because I know it is not.”

Eve began twisting her hands.  “How much further?”

“Tell me?” Patrick said, his voice strong, almost demanding. 

Eve swallowed.  “Sharland.  My real name is Eve Sharland.”

Neither moved for a time, as the cab pitched and ramped over the old ruddy road.  Patrick slowly eased back into the seat.

“Evelyn Sharland?” he repeated, working to process the new knowledge.

“Yes.”

“So you really
are
related to…to the Evelyn Sharland we’re about to see?”

“Yes.  I am a distant relation.”

The cab turned right and started down a narrow street lined with new brownstones on either side. 

“Why did you change your name?  Are you running from something—from a husband?  Maybe an abusive one.  I see a lot of that.”

Eve blurted out a laugh.  “Oh, God no.  I divorced him.”

Patrick looked at her in a strange way.  “Divorced your husband?”

Eve nodded firmly.  “Yes.  I didn’t love him.  He was, to put it bluntly, unfaithful.  So I divorced him.”

Patrick scratched the side of his neck, processing this. 

“Does that shock you?” Eve asked.

“I must admit, Miss Kennedy or Sharland or whoever you are, I am constantly surprised by you.”

“It is the truth and you wanted the truth.”

“Are you running from the police back in Ohio then?”

The cab drew up to the curb and stopped.

Her eyes were cool and direct.  “I am not running away from anyone, Detective Gantly.  Stop being a cop for a minute and really look at me.  Do I seem the type who is plotting a crime?  Do I look devious and calculating, or do I look like a woman who is in a very difficult situation who finds herself very attracted to a certain detective?”

Before Gantly could speak—or even try to, since he didn’t know what to say—Eve turned her gaze out the window.  “Is this where she is?”

He only nodded.

She turned back to him.  “Please trust me.  I will tell you everything when I can, when it is right to tell you.  I’ll tell you everything and you still won’t believe me.  For now, please continue to call me Eve Kennedy.  Please.”

He ran a hand over the shadow of his beard and looked at her with a disappointing shake of his head. 

“It is unfortunate, Miss Kennedy.  Unfortunate that you won’t trust me.  I had believed that we could be…friends.”

“Friends?” Eve asked, probing his face.  “Only friends?”

“Friends are honest with each other, Miss Kennedy.  Lovers trust and share all secrets.  I fear we cannot be either.”

Eve’s shoulders sagged as she sighed audibly.

He pushed the door open and stepped down, offering her a helping hand.  After asking the driver to wait, they stood looking at the handsome, three-story brownstone that was surrounded by a heavily spiked wrought-iron gate.

“Did you contact her?” Eve asked.

He shook his head.

He swung the gate open for her. 

“It’s a nice enough neighborhood,” Eve said, feeling hopeful as they mounted the stairs.

Eve lifted the gold knocker and let it strike the heavy door.  They waited.

When it opened, a young, white-aproned, white-capped maid stood alert, looking back at them.

“Yes?”

“I am told that there is an Evelyn Sharland living here,” Eve said.

The maid’s eyes darted about in sudden alarm.  “Well… I.”

Eve heard a deep, stern voice coming from inside the house.

“Well, who is it?  Who is it?”

The maid bobbed a bow and turned.  “It’s a woman and a man looking for Miss Sharland, sir.”

A man suddenly appeared from nowhere, an imperious scowl on his face.  He was short and thin, wore a dark suit with a dark blue ascot, and his clean black beard was trimmed to a point. 

“Who are you and why are you here?” he demanded.

“I am a relative of Miss Sharland’s and I would like to see her.”

“That is quite impossible.”

Patrick stepped forward.  “And why is it impossible, sir?”

“She is not well and cannot, under any circumstances, receive visitors.”

“Miss Kennedy is a nurse and a relative, sir,” Patrick said, with authority.  “You may be assured that Miss Kennedy only has Miss Sharland’s welfare in mind.”

The man lifted a proud chin, puffing out his chest.  “I am Dr. Horace A. Begley, and whether this woman is a nurse and has my patient’s welfare in mind or not, it is of no concern to me.  This is my house and I cannot and will not allow it.”

Dr. Begley backed away and was about to close the door when Patrick wedged a big foot inside to prevent it from closing.

The doctor stared with shock and anger.  “Sir, release your foot this instant or I will have to summon the police.”

“I
am
the police, sir.  Now we are here to see Miss Sharland, and you can either cooperate with us or you can find yourself down in the local precinct under the questioning gaze of detectives.”

“This is outrageous!” Dr. Begley thundered.  “On what charge would you have me down for then, sir?”

Patrick grinned sardonically, presenting a threatening expression Eve had never seen before.  Patrick drew out his badge, presenting it for the doctor to see. 

“On any charge I may wish to provide, doctor.  The New York Police Department works very closely with The New Jersey Police Department.  I happen to have a cousin who is a detective here.  I have not seen him in two months.  Shall I see him today and catch up on old times?”

Dr. Begley swallowed back rage and humiliation, and Eve saw his Adam’s apple move.  His eyes twitched and his mouth twitched.  He lowered his eyes and stepped aside to let them enter.

It was warm inside the elegant foyer.  Off the hallway was the living room, which was expensively decorated in burgundy and gold.  A fire gleamed in the hearth.

Dr. Begley pointed to the staircase that led to the upper rooms.  “Miss Sharland is in the first room on the right,” he offered, face tightly closed, not moving.

Patrick removed his hat and indicated toward the staircase.  “Please escort us, Doctor.  If you would be so kind.”

The doctor smoothed out his suit jacket and snorted.  He marched up the stairs like a soldier going boldly into battle.

Upstairs, he opened the door to Evelyn’s room and backed away, refusing to look inside.

“I want it known that I will contact Miss Sharland’s brother.  He has put Evelyn in my exclusive and professional care, and he has been responsible for the payment of my fees.”

Eve looked at him carefully, before entering the room.  “What is his name, Dr. Begley?”

The doctor feigned surprise, his eyes widening.  “You are a relative and you do not know his name?” he asked.

“Just answer the lady, doctor,” Patrick snapped.

“Clayton Sharland.”

“Thank you, Dr. Begley,” Eve said, mildly.

Eve hesitated before entering the dark room.  She had come a very long way to see this woman, the love object of the Christmas Eve letter; to see the distant relative who, in Eve’s time, had been dead for many years.

Eve entered.  She smelled lye, soap and vinegar, a good sign, she thought.  At least Evelyn was in a clean place.  All Eve could see was the shadow of a four-poster bed, a chest of drawers and a chair.  She went to the window and gently parted the heavy blue velvet drapes until a slice of light entered the room, illuminating the gray bundle that lay on the bed.

Dr. Begley and Patrick remained standing, framed in the light of the doorway.  Eve stepped over to the bed and looked down at Evelyn, who was sleeping.  Eve drew in a quick, startled breath, astounded to see that she and Evelyn had very similar features.  Except for the long red hair that lay scattered on the pillow around her, they could have passed as sisters.  Evelyn looked so vulnerable and thin under the quilt.  She had a scattering of freckles but was as pale as the snow, her chest rising and falling erratically.  Eve touched Evelyn’s forehead.  It was hot and damp.

Eve turned to Dr. Begley, who was staring down at his shoes.  “What is your diagnosis, Dr. Begley?”

He cleared his throat.  “When I asked this patient what her symptoms were, she said that, a month or so ago, she thought she had a cold, but then it got much worse.  After my examination I concluded she has bilious fever.”

Eve had no idea what that was.  “Bilious fever, you say?”

“Yes!  It’s a common ailment,” Dr. Begley said, defensively.  “You purport to be a nurse, and yet you don’t know what bilious fever is?”

Eve ignored his question.  “Not consumption?  Not tuberculosis?”

“Consumption?  No.  When Mr. Clayton Sharland first brought her to me, he thought so.  Evelyn herself had been told she had tuberculosis by an unscrupulous and incompetent physician in Manhattan.  Upon examination, I found no blood in her sputum and no other symptoms consistent with tuberculosis.  Her symptoms were fever and intestinal distress, all consistent with bilious fever.  Unfortunately, since then, she has developed what I believe to be pneumonia.”

Eve worked to process this, her mind spinning with ideas and possible solutions. 

“What medications have you administered, doctor?”

He placed his hands behind his back and locked them.  He remained silent for a time. 

“Medications, Dr. Begley?” Patrick said, with a small dark grin.

“The medications are mine and mine alone.  They are proprietary.”

“Please, Dr. Begley.  It would be helpful,” Eve said, softly.  “Please.”

“I assure you, Miss Sharland is under the best of care,” Dr. Begley said, largely.  “I am widely known and respected, and my patients come from the highest social classes.  I only agreed to accept Miss Sharland as a patient out of professional conscience, because Mr. Sharland seemed so desperate.”

“And where does Clayton Sharland live?” Eve asked.

“On 12
^th
Street and Addison.  About three miles from here.”

“The medications, Dr. Begley,” Patrick repeated.  “What medications?”

Dr. Begley exhaled audibly.  “I have administered laudanum and morphine.  Being a chemist as well as a physician, I have also created a personal prescription for Miss Sharland, which includes mercury, silver and arsenic compounds.  They are already having an efficacious effect.”

Eve shut her eyes in utter disbelief.  The good Dr. Begley was killing Evelyn with his ludicrous cure.  Eve’s eyes opened and she swung her attention to Patrick.  “We have to get her out of here.”

Patrick stiffened in surprise.  Dr. Begley looked as though he’d been stricken with a heart attack.

“What!?  You’ll do no such thing!” Dr. Begley shouted.

“We must get her out of here,” Eve said, firmly.

“Why this is a complete and utter outrage!” Dr. Begley bellowed.

“You are killing her,” Eve said.  “She needs proper care and supervision.  She’s doped up on laudanum and morphine and God only knows what else.  Arsenic alone will kill her, Dr. Begley.  It is a poison.  Mercury will kill her.  You are further weakening her already weakened system, Dr. Begley.”

“How dare you impugn my professional integrity, you… you, you nurse!” Dr. Begley roared. 

Eve went to Patrick.  “We have to get Evelyn back to New York to Gouverneur Hospital where Dr. Long and I can treat her.”

Patrick was bewildered and then conflicted.  He looked first at Eve, then to the doctor, and then to the bed where Evelyn lay, already looking close to death.

“I tell you I won’t have it,” Dr. Begley yelled, bursting further into the room.  “You will kill her if you move her, and I will not be responsible.  Do you hear me?” he said, punching a fist into his chest.  “I will not be responsible for her death!  I will take this to the highest authority!  I will contact my lawyer!  This will not stand; do you hear me?  It will not stand!”

Patrick stared hard at Eve.

And then it struck her—a hammering, throbbing thought.  This moment was possibly
the
seminal moment—the very reason Eve had come to 1885!  She was very likely about to alter a future event and with that, perhaps change the future of the entire world.  By moving Evelyn Sharland, Eve was changing the trajectory of Evelyn’s life, as well as changing the future course of others’ lives:  John Allister Harringshaw for one, and possibly the entire Harringshaw family; Evelyn’s mother and her brother and Dr. Long, not to mention Detective Sergeant Gantly.  Eve was about to rewrite history, and no matter how small or seemingly unimportant the act of change might be, who knew where it would lead?  Insignificant or not, who could predict the consequences or what the final results would be?