The Time Heiress (2 page)

Cassandra ran her hand over the surface of the picture. “No, it’s the real thing.”

It was a small, abstract self-portrait of the artist, one that Cassandra recognized instantly as among the most famous of Evie’s works, framed in a hand-made, rustic wooden frame. She knew its value was immense.

“I think she
is
trying to bribe me,” she said with a sardonic laugh. She set it on his desk. “At any rate, I’m not keeping it.”

“Yes, you’re right. You have to give it back.” He picked it up and examined it. “I guess it shows, though, how serious she is about this proposal.”

Cassandra slowly shook her head. She looked out the window at the frozen Charles River, thinking, aware he was watching her. She wondered if Elinah Johnston’s wealth, fame or beauty could possibly be influencing her normally unshakable boss. “I’ll think about doing it, Elton. But I don’t like her method of convincing me. Will you please give this back to her?”

“Yes, leave it here, and I’ll speak to her about the propriety of offering you such a thing. But Cassie, if this trip is going to happen, we’d have to get started next week.”

“Give me two days.” She stood up and he rose with her.

“All right, and thank you.”

“I haven’t said yes.”

“I know,” he said, giving her a peck on the forehead and a gentle hug. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

She returned his affection with a kiss on the cheek. “Okay. See you later.”

She exited the building and noticed that the paparazzi had evaporated. She walked south through the MIT campus, across a highway, where the cars glided quietly to a pause as she crossed. She wandered along the Charles River to just before the boathouse and rowing skiff. At this time of year, with the water frozen, no one would be around. The temperature was in the low thirties but her lightweight clothing was programmed to keep her comfortable regardless. She didn’t even mind the wind blowing in off the water.

She stared across at the Boston skyline, the gleaming dome of the three-hundred-and twenty-year-old State House still vivid amidst the towering skyscrapers, and Harvard Bridge quaintly poised to allow for the passage of vehicles that its builders could not have vaguely imagined. Before long, these images receded from the forefront of her consciousness as her mind drifted back to England, to the year 1820. She generally tried not to spend too much time thinking about her relationship with Ben Johnston now that she and Nick were together, but now, these memories came flooding back, especially after seeing those eyes, Ben’s eyes, looking at her from Elinah Johnston’s face. The icy surface of the Charles River became the backdrop for her memories of Sorrel Hall, the beautiful mansion she’d lived in for a year, its sweeping grounds, its forests, hills, and streams. She remembered the rustic little cottage where she and Ben would meet to make love as often as possible, the thrill of the secrecy of their affair, and thought of the risk she had taken getting involved in such a thing. She thought of those eyes, those sea-green eyes, his mouth, his hands, his sinewy body, and she felt heat rising through her thighs. She shook her head. It wasn’t right to be fantasizing about him anymore. He’d been dead for almost three centuries, and she was now in a relationship with the man who had ultimately proven to be the hero when she needed one most.

Her mind turned to her son James, who was beginning to plan his own experiment a few years from now. She thought about how he’d insinuated himself into her journey, having convinced Professor Carver to let him go back to England six months into her stay to check up on her, and felt a sudden chill remembering the dangerous repercussions of that act. Thinking of it sobered her toward this new venture. Evie Johnston thought it would be a fun adventure to get dressed up in period clothes and pop into the past, check out some ancestors, maybe attend a ball, pretend to be goddamned Scarlett O’Hara gadding about in the antebellum north, but heaven forbid something would go wrong. If she didn’t go with Evie, someone else would have to, and Cassandra was the most experienced among her colleagues. She felt like the trip was becoming inevitable. The girl was obviously intent on it happening if she was willing to use one of her priceless pieces as a bargaining chip.

Cassandra headed over to the nearest Cambridge subway station, and in five minutes was exiting within a block of her townhouse on Mount Vernon Street. She went in, changed her clothes and gave Nick a call.

When she walked into the restaurant, she spotted him sitting at their usual table overlooking the harbor. His face lit up when he saw her, and she smiled in return.

He stood to greet her. “Hi!”

She could see the expectation on his face. They kissed lightly on the lips, and she appreciated anew his full, welcoming mouth. They sat down and she reviewed his familiar features: warm brown eyes, high cheekbones, and thick gray hair, worn long, a little past his ears.

The waiter blustered up to the table. His face was flushed, and a few strands of what remained of his hair had blown out of place. “Cassandra! Nick! How are you! So good to see you!”

“Hi, Henry!” they chimed.

“Two cups of clam chowder and a bottle of Montepulciano, am I right?”

“You got it,” said Nick. “Right?”

Cassandra laughed. “Sure.”

Henry hurried away with the order. Cassandra breathed in the smell of fresh bread baking, and the salty tang of clams steaming in the kitchen. A fire crackled in a nearby fireplace and lit up their faces. On a Monday night, the restaurant wasn’t busy. The few couples in the room murmured to each other over the clank of silverware and china.

“It was cold today,” Nick commented.

“Yes, but I didn’t mind it.” Cassandra knew he was waiting for her news.

“You look beautiful. Have you been wearing that all day?”

“No, silly, I put it on for you. I know you like me in a dress.”

Henry returned with their wine, opened and poured it, then took their main course orders and trundled off again.

“Tell me!” Nick blurted. “Tell me what the famous artist is like!”

“Well first of all,” she said, blushing slightly, “she absolutely has Ben’s eyes.”

Nick’s face fell.

“I’m sorry to have to say that, but it’s true. Anyway, it doesn’t matter; it was just interesting to see that a characteristic like that could be carried down through so many generations.”

“Yes, I agree,” he replied.

“Also, she’s even more beautiful in person than in any images you’ve seen.”

“Really?”

“I’m afraid I was pretty rude to her, though.”

“You were? Why?”

“Because I don’t like the idea of the rich and privileged getting to do anything they want.”

“Forgive me if I take her side, being rich and privileged myself—”

“But you don’t take advantage of it. She even offered me her most iconic painting to convince me, the self-portrait.”

“What?!”

“I didn’t accept it. I gave it to Elton to give back to her.”

“Geez. So, has the project been approved by the board?”

“Well, no, not yet. Carver needs my decision before he presents it to them.”

“But why is it up to you? I mean, I’m sure Carver wanted your input, but why is it your decision?”

“Because she wants me to go with her.”

Nick and Cassandra looked at each other while Henry brought the soup. He placed it before them soundlessly, and scurried away.

Nick finally spoke. “Go with her?”

“Yes. She wants to travel to New York of 1853 to meet Ben’s daughter, Cassandra Johnston, and she wants me to go with her.”

Color drained from Nick’s face as he stared down at his soup.

“But Nick, Ben will be dead. I won’t be seeing him.”

“Oh, yeah.” His face regained its usual hue. “How soon does she want to make the journey?”

“I’d say within six months—by the spring, actually.”

His spoon stopped mid way to his mouth.

“I know, I know,” Cassandra hurried on, “it’s really soon. But obviously she’s got the bucks to make this happen. She can throw endless resources behind it.”

“I’d like to be part of the support team,” Nick uttered after he’d swallowed his mouthful of soup.

“I think Elton is hoping you will be.”

Nick inhaled deeply. “Are you really up to this? To be traveling again so soon?”

“Well, I never would have considered it before today, but now to think about seeing New York during that time period, to meet actual abolitionists, Ben’s daughter, it would be incredible! It’s just that…” She ate another spoonful of chowder.

“What?”

“I just can’t help feeling like this is some kind of bizarre whim of hers, a whim she can act on because she is who she is.”

“Well, I’m behind you, whatever you decide to do.”

She squeezed his hand across the table. “You’re the best.”

Henry returned and presented them each with a steaming plate of linguini.

“This looks great. Thank you, Henry,” said Nick with a smile. “My love,” he said, turning to Cassandra, “will you excuse me for a minute?”

Cassandra’s fork was already half-way to her mouth with a succulent clam poised on a mound of pasta.

“Please, eat,” he said.

He placed his napkin on the chair and glided away to the back of the restaurant. After firmly closing the men’s room door he looked around to make sure he was alone, then leaned against the wall, pressing his forehead against its cool marble. He took several deep breaths. Benedict Johnston, the brilliant violinist. He could see the man’s face, remember his voice. He had to remind himself that he, Nick, was the one who had gotten Cassandra in the end.
He
had won, not Benedict. Anyway, the man was dead. Still, he wished there were a way he could go on this journey too, just to keep an eye on things, but that didn’t seem to be part of the plan. He went to the sink and splashed his face with water, dried it instantaneously with a forceful blast of air from the dryer, and returned to the table, a smile plastered on his face.

Come daybreak, we got to a river. It was big and wide, all rough water. We felt it. It was ice cold, and none of us knew how to swim, but we knew that to go north, we had to cross it. We heard dogs still a long way off, coming for us. Sam walked up river a bit and called back to us. There was a ferryman on the other side with an old, rickety-looking raft. He was a black man, so we thought it’d be safe to cross with him. We huddled on the bank in the fog and waved to him, hearing the dogs coming closer and closer. He made his way on rope and pulley, easing the raft along with a pole stuck down into the river bottom. He’d yank it up then stick it back down and push, and little by little the raft came across. It was slow going. When he reached the bank, we scuttled down its steep sides and carefully stepped onto the slab of logs that tipped and pitched dangerously. Once we were settled, the ferryman started back across. The fog had settled down low, and we couldn’t see the bank on the other side. Sam and I helped him wield his pole, and we made quicker time. The barking grew louder, and now we could hear men shouting. After a time, we could no longer see the bank we’d come from, and it was a lucky thing, for we could hear the men and dogs running up and down near the riverbank. We spoke not a word as we rode. We were all fearful that we’d tumble into the restless water. When we got to the far bank, Sam gave the ferryman his hat for payment. The man spoke briefly to us, telling us his master had freed him when he died, and he was happy to help his brethren to freedom on this ferry that was his and his alone.

He told us that about half-mile up the river was a creek inlet. He said to follow the creek till the sun was halfway between the horizon and straight overhead. Said that nobody lived thereabouts and we oughta be safe till we get to the first house we see. Said Quakers live there. He told us to knock on the back door and say Daniel sent us. He said they were white people who hated slavery, and they would help us and to not be afraid.

From Caleb Stone’s narrative, as remembered by Dr. Cassandra Reilly

*****

Travel Journal, Evie Johnston: March 18, 2122—Dr. Reilly suggested that this would be a good time for me to start writing a travel journal, since our personal preparation for this trip is now getting underway. She said that keeping a journal like this is the scientific thing to do, and she suggested I write it out by hand (though it’s incredibly painstaking and hard to get used to) because when we get to 1853, our journals, will, of course, have to be written out.

My name will be Evelyn Bay. Obviously, I can’t use my real last name, because it would seem strange that I have the same last name as the Johnston family. My “character” is to be the traveling companion of Mrs. Cassandra Reilly, a wealthy widow from Boston. It’s incredible the detail that is being put into this journey: the research we both have to do, the designing and creation of all the perfect period clothing and accessories, the speech training, the duplication of money. I just hope it won’t all be in vain. I’m determined to find Caleb Stone.

Evie picked up the mem-stick and examined it. It looked just like an old-fashioned book-mark. She swiped it over the last two sentences of her journal entry and they disappeared. They would be recorded in the stick, and also, invisibly, on the memory paper of the journal. This is the beauty, she thought, of such “hidden” technologies. No one would ever see anything in her journal, other than what she intended them to see.

*****

Nick and Cassandra lounged in her cluttered office at MIT, discarded containers of Chinese food taking up the available surfaces. The two scientists were staring at a floating, 3D image of a New York street from the middle of the nineteenth century.

“This is Broadway from Eighth to about Twelfth Street,” said Nick, finishing off a dumpling.

“Oh yeah. I recognize Grace Church there on Tenth.”

“Mm-hm.”

The image shifted, allowing them to follow the streets as if they were actually walking on the surfaces.

“Now,” he said, “this is based partly on drawings from the time, and partly on imagination.”

They seemed to float along the avenue crammed with shops.

“Okay,” he continued, “we’re coming up to Twelfth. Now I want you to notice here—” He used a laser to point at an opening between two buildings. “There’s a little alley here. Now watch.”

He gave a command, and the image shifted to a modern scene. It was New York’s Broadway of 2122. “It’s disorienting, but even though it hardly looks like the same street, you can recognize some landmarks, I think.”

“Right, right. God, I wish Evie were here to see this. I feel this part of the preparation is crucial.”

“Well, I guess fame has its demands.”

“I would think she’d want to make these training sessions a priority if she’s so desperate to make this journey.”

“True. But the most important thing is that you be prepared. You’re the guide. So, anyway, coming back up toward Twelfth Street, you can see that where this little alley used to be there is now a store front, and inside, our portal lab.”

“I can’t wait to see it tomorrow for real. Let’s see some more of the area.”

The floating image continued up Broadway to Union Square, then wandered westward, along Fourteenth Street, down Sixth Avenue and then turned east onto Waverly Place with its solid little brick houses, well-cared-for gardens in the front, and lace curtains fluttering at the windows. It continued along Washington Square Park, down Lafayette to Fourth Street. Here and there a tenement building made an appearance. Laundry flapped from makeshift lines strung wall to wall. The scientists wandered down the holographic streets where a bakery snuggled up to a butcher shop, which neighbored a cheese shop, set up next to a cobbler. Make-believe people, appropriately attired for the era, went on about their business.

“Amazing how little the actual streets have changed,” Cassandra commented.

“It will be fascinating to experience. I envy you. I remember the thrill of trying to fit in—of passing yourself off as someone you’re not.”

“I never really thought of it as a thrill.”

“Maybe it’s better, then, that I’m not going. I supposed the
thrill
is not a very scientific reason for traveling.” 

“Honestly,” remarked Cassandra, “I’m fairly nervous about what we may encounter. Although the layout of the city hasn’t changed since the 1850s, other things have. We’ll have to be cautious no matter what we do or where we go. It was a chaotic time in New York.”

He turned to her, his face serious. “Cassandra, promise me you will stay away from any rough areas. If you think someplace or someone seems even the slightest bit sketchy, just steer clear. I can’t have you getting curious and ending up in a compromising situation.”

“I think I’ll know what and whom to stay away from.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

“We’ll be keeping a low profile.”

“But I’m sure your simply being there will attract enough attention. You’re both so beautiful.”

“Well, Evie maybe, but you overestimate my charms.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “She doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

“Now you’re just lying.” She laughed, and stood. She gathered up the empty food containers and tossed them into the recycler. “But, whatever you say.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I better get going.”

He stood up and grabbed her arm, pulling her in close. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight?”

“You know I have to get up early!”

“Okay, then I’ll go home with you.”

She laughed. “It wouldn’t make any difference. I wouldn’t get any sleep.”

“I promise I’ll let you sleep.” He kissed her neck.

“No, Nick, I can’t."

“Come on—” He tightened his embrace while continuing to kiss her neck and face.

“Nick.”

“We can do it right here,” he whispered to her.

“No!” she said, squirming out of his grasp.

He turned back to the hologram of New York City, his face hot.

“Nick, don’t be angry.”

He took a deep breath and turned back to her, forcing a smile. “I’m not. I just don’t get enough time with you. And soon you’ll be gone.” He sat back down at her desk and stared at the hologram.

“Goodnight.”

He heard her close the door. Ordering all the power in the room off, he sat in the dark, staring straight ahead at nothing.

*****

New York City was as beautiful and changeable as Cassandra had ever seen it on an April morning. Flashes of bright blue sky flirted from behind the skyscrapers, only to be overcome by clouds frantically whipping past. The scent of the ocean blew in with them, the briny odor making her think of the humans who had lived on that same island for millennia, experiencing the same smell.

It was ten o’clock. Cassandra knocked on the glass door of the portal lab, which was covered up with paper from the inside. It was the future site of an ice-cream shop the team had rented for two months. As she waited, she looked up at a patch of blue and enjoyed the feeling of vertigo that comes from watching clouds race over tall buildings. The two that sandwiched the tiny shop also dwarfed the spire of the ancient Grace Church nearby at the corner of Tenth Street and Broadway. She thought of the holographic images she’d seen with Nick, and tried to shake off the unpleasant sensation he’d left her with.

Instead, she reminded herself of the stories her parents used to tell her, about when they were young and living in New York as newlyweds, when the area was mostly low-rise buildings. They liked to point out to her the locations of long, lost “mom and pop” shops, like a bookstore that was once on a nearby corner, a place they would wander into and get lost for hours in the moldering texts. Once, her mom had pointed out the spot a few blocks away where a favorite dive of a diner had been, and spoke fondly of the nights spent there, arguing the merits of socialism in a society where the foundations of capitalism were crumbling. They would stumble in after a night of drinking, Cassandra’s mother confessed, and soothe themselves with a buttery omelet stuffed with fresh vegetables and imported cheeses (and maybe a Bloody Mary for the hair of the dog). They’d find themselves caught up in discussions with local activists and artists, the neighborhood legends, and would discuss art and literature for hours. It was her dad who had shown her the spot where his favorite music shop had been nearby on Bleecker Street, a place he would always find some treasure—perhaps a bit of bootleg vinyl to add to his collection of archaic formats. Now, it seemed progress had taken its toll on the area, and those quaint experiences had mostly gone.

A black car with dark windows glided up and stopped at the curb. Evie stepped out wearing a skirt that barely covered her rear, a top that formed to every curve of her torso, and five inch stiletto heels, all in silver tones that caught the light and glistened as she moved. Cassandra watched her speak to her chauffer, then step away from the door while it silently slid shut. As the car slipped away into traffic, Cassandra glanced down at the gray sweater she was wearing over a slim fitting black skirt, and flat patent leather shoes. Earlier, she’d thought she looked sophisticated; now she suddenly felt frumpy.

At that moment, a young scientist named Yoshi opened the door of the lab, flanked by his colleague, Jake. Cassandra exchanged warm hugs with them both. The two men then shook hands with Evie. Jake stood up straighter in her presence, making the most of his five feet, eight inches and Yoshi, lanky and habitually unkempt, quickly tucked in his shirt and tried to smooth down his spiky black hair. He was the man in charge of the tour and proudly showed the women around the long, narrow space, taking them through a small lounge area to the control room. A large monitor there displayed a night-vision image of an alleyway.

“This is the exact spot in which we’re now standing, two-hundred and sixty-nine years in the past,” said Yoshi. “Since they didn’t use daylight savings time yet, it’s about nine
AM
there.”

Suddenly a flash of red darted across the screen.

“What was that?” asked Evie.

“Probably a rat,” Yoshi replied with a shrug, “judging from the size of it. This monitor shows us images based on heat. If a man were to walk into the alley, we would recognize it as such from its shape, but again, it’s not a picture, it’s a heat image.”

Just then another red shape wandered across the monitor and they could see from its shape that it was a cat.

“Now watch,” said Yoshi. Jake and Cassandra looked on with interest, though they knew the process well. Yoshi gave the computer a verbal command to measure the image. It immediately responded by outlining the image in blue and presenting the exact body mass of the cat for them to read.

“This is how we will know when you and Cassandra return to the portal for transportation back to our time. We will have pre-programmed your exact body mass and proportions, along with your stance and biometric signature, into the computer. Once you step into the alley, the computer will sound an alarm to alert us to a match, and we will immediately activate the portal for your return. You will instantaneously disappear from that spot, but it will take about a minute for you to actually travel through the wormhole to this portal chamber.” He indicated a glass-enclosed booth to his right.