The Time Travel Chronicles (9 page)

“They recall my father.  I was just a lad—”

“Indeed.”  Her lips press into a firm line.  “I shall pray upon this matter.”

She turns to go, but I grab her arm.  “I would not pray too long, dear Friend.” I glance behind me at the new wing that Judge Potter recently added to his home, expressly for Jemima’s use.  “I have foreseen that thy generous patron will grow to doubt thee if Susannah is not spared. And no potion can raise the dead.” 

The last bit isn’t
entirely
true, depending on the timing and the exact cause of death.  And Potter’s faith in Jemima will not be shaken even when Susannah dies. He won’t begin to doubt the Friend for well over a decade, and the records that exist suggest their falling out was due to a legal dispute concerning money, not the mere death of one of his dozen or so offspring.  I’m less certain about his wife, Penelope, however. When Potter and his adult children follow Jemima into the wilds of upper New York in 1790 to help build her new utopia, Penelope will remain behind in Little Rest.

Still, I can tell from the look in Jemima’s eyes that the warning hits home. She’d feel much more secure if Potter and the rest of her followers believed her prayers could pull a girl back from an almost certain death. 

“I shall pray upon this matter,” she repeats, slipping the bottle into a small pouch concealed under her cloak.  “Caesar will prepare a room.  It would be best to have thee near at hand in the event there are…complications.”

Her subtle emphasis on the last word has me worried.  “While I thank thee for the kind offer, our belongings are in the rooms we’ve taken in the village.  My wife knows nothing of my gift and she has been known to gossip.  It would be best if this remains our secret.”

“One of our people will fetch your things,” Jemima coos, giving me a smile that’s almost angelic. “Because I really must insist.”

∞

“I don’t understand why we aren’t staying in Little Rest,” Katherine says, as we retreat down the hallway to our chamber, two doors down from the sickroom. “We’re supposed to stick to the
plan
.” 

She’s referring to the formal mission plan, submitted months in advance and cleared by Angelo and a half dozen other CHRONOS functionaries prior to each historical jump.  We provide them with the precise historical questions we’ll address, a list of events we’ll witness directly, individuals we intend to contact, lodging arrangements for overnight stays, and so forth.  According to the plan I submitted, I’m here to observe the impact of the legendary “dark day” on the Society of United Friends, an eighteenth-century millennialist sect.  I haven’t read the plan Katherine submitted, but knowing her mentors, I’d wager it’s some feminist garbage about how Quaker society and its offshoots empowered female leaders.  

Supposedly, having a precise plan and adhering to it limits our impact on the timeline, on top of the host of pesky technical constraints they’ve built into the system.  The primary nuisance is locking down our travel with the key.  All historians must return to CHRONOS headquarters via the same stable point at which we arrive, with no side trips.  While there’s some degree of flexibility as to
when
we return, anything more than a few days outside your preordained window will be flagged during your post-jump med scan.  And, as my roommate Tate recently discovered, you’d better have a damned good explanation for your delay.

These protocols help CHRONOS isolate accidental alterations to the timeline.  They’ve never been willing to discuss the specifics with a mere historian like myself—CHRONOS bureaucracy is a complex, multilayered ecosystem—but between my own experiences and what I’ve pieced together from others, no one worries about minor blips on the historical radar.  Minute, splinter-sized changes will happen in the course of any jump, but these rough edges are worn away within a few years.  In some cases, the reports don’t even pick up those anomalies, especially on jumps like this one to tiny burgs where the historical recordkeeping is scanty at best.  They’re looking for things that change history on a grand scale. The small tweak I’m working here with Friend Jemima—along with the dozen or so other miracles and prophecies I intend to add over the next few years—will never show up in their aggregated results. 

Of course, little Kathy here is fresh out of training.  CHRONOS protocol has been pounded into her pretty head on a daily basis for the past eight years.  No doubt she believes the sky will come tumbling down if we deviate the slightest bit from the mission plan. 

Another downside to having a wide-eyed child as my traveling companion.   Someone who’s been around a bit would be more relaxed.  All of the historians, with the possible exception of Delia Morrell and Abel Waters, sneak away for a joyride from time to time. 

On the other hand, a more experienced partner would be more likely to pick up on any activities outside the norm.  And since I can’t do every jump solo…Katherine is probably the lesser of the various evils I could have at my side. 

That doesn’t keep me from wanting to snap her neck right now.  Once we’re in our room with the door closed behind us, I take a deep breath and answer her question.  “It would have been impolite to refuse Jemima’s offer.  And this gives us a chance to observe their reactions up close.  To really understand what happens.”

“I’m here to study Wilkinson and I haven’t even seen her yet!” 

I put the lantern on the dresser. “You just sat around a table with a family of Quakers—“

She opens her mouth to correct me, so I quickly amend. “I know it’s a variant.  The Society of United Friends.  What-the-hell-ever. The point remains.  This is an opportunity that fell into our laps and I took it.”

“Chatting with a bunch of children won’t help me answer my research questions.”

She may have a point there. I was by far the oldest occupant at the dinner table.  We ate with the six boys and two girls who still reside in the Potter home, ranging from nineteen-year-old Benedict Arnold Potter (who will decide to drop his troublesome first name in a few months when his namesake is exposed as traitor) to four-year-old Pelham, who doesn’t like dried beef and was therefore given a bowl of something called pop-robin.  Judge Potter isn’t due to return until later this evening.  He dined with us in absentia, however—a dramatic portrait of the judge as a young man hangs above the dining room fireplace, staring down at his progeny and guests as we ate.  Penelope came down briefly to introduce herself to Katherine and make sure we were being taken care of, then returned upstairs with one of her daughters to tend Susannah.  I haven’t seen Jemima since we spoke three hours ago. 

I nod toward the window, where a full moon hangs in the sky, pinkish-red, but still a far cry from the dark, blood red orb that history recorded tomorrow night. “The girl—the one who’s around your age?  She spent a good ten minutes telling us how the Friend predicted the moon you see there. You couldn’t have gotten any better information than that at the inn. The action takes place
tomorrow
, Kathy.  Tonight simply gets us into place and staying here avoids a hike back and forth from the village.”

Our bags are on the bed, fetched from the inn as Jemima promised.  I shove Katherine’s bag in her direction and start digging through my own.  

“Why didn’t you request separate rooms like we had at the inn? It would have made more sense, given that the entire reason we’re supposedly here is to ask the Friend’s counsel on whether we should be celibate. Did you even mention that to her?”

“I didn’t really have time, Kathy.  It was a two minute conversation held outside the privy.  The woman was in a rush to get back to Susannah.”

“Sorry. I guess you’re right.” She’s quiet for a moment, and then adds, “Do you think that’s why Mrs. Potter follows Jemima?  Maybe she wants the judge to embrace celibacy so that she’s not spitting out a kid every few years.”

It’s equally likely that Penelope Potter realizes her randy old goat will never embrace celibacy, and she’s actively hoping his prayer sessions with Jemima are
exactly
what the townspeople think they are so that she’s off the hook in that regard.  I’d tell Katherine that, but it would probably send her off on a boring tangent about how the miracle of birth control saved women from a life of drudgery and I’m too tired to pretend that I care.

When I finally locate the item I’m searching for in my bag, her eyebrows shoot straight up. 

“Is that a toothbrush? How on earth did you get that approved?”  

“Special request from the prop department.  The handle is bone, and the bristles look like, but damn well better not be, swine hair.  These were first used around 1780, so yeah, it was approved.  If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you borrow it.”

She wrinkles her nose. “No, thanks.  I have a cloth in my bag.”

“Suit yourself.” 

I walk over to the water jug and dampen the brush, thinking as I scrub how nice it would be if the overlords of CHRONOS would approve toothpaste. Or better yet, a portable sonic scrubber.

When I’m done, I spit into the side basin and then turn back to face her. “They don’t tell you this during training, Kathy, but
everyone
goes off plan.  We improvise.  Otherwise, we learn nothing.”

Her eyes remain wary.  And while I can’t be certain in the dim light, her trademark blush seems to be missing.  Has Katherine Shaw gotten used to my presence over the past few hours?    

That’s something I need to fix.

I take a few steps toward her. Tipping her chin upward with my thumb, I give her my best, most reassuring smile, as I trace her lower lip with my forefinger.  “Relax, okay?  I’ll cover for you if they give us any flack.  Promise.  And if you’re worried about the sleeping arrangements, I’ll take a quilt onto the floor.” 

For several seconds I hold her gaze, forcing her to be the one to look away.  And even in the lantern light, I can tell that her face reddens.

She finally steps back.  Her mouth opens, like she’s about to say something, but we’re interrupted by a faint tapping.

When I open the door, Penelope Potter is there, looking exhausted.  “I beg pardon, John Franklin.  I have a favor to ask of Katherine.”

I move away and Katherine approaches a little hesitantly.  “Yes?”

“My daughter has retired for the night and so has the Friend.  We have been tending Susannah for days with little rest and I told them I could manage for a bit on my own.  But the judge has returned from his trip.  I must speak with him briefly, and I do not wish to leave Susannah alone.  Would thee be willing to watch over her for a short time?”

Katherine nods, but I hold up my hand.  There are no markings on the bottle I gave Jemima, but if she left it open, Katherine might be able to tell from the scent that it wasn’t your average herbal cure. 

“My wife is tired.  It would be best if—”  

Katherine smiles at Penelope.  “I need a moment with my husband and then I will gladly join thee.”

Penelope nods, and as she’s closing the door, I ask, “Has Susannah’s condition improved?” 

“Truly, I cannot tell.  The Friend says we can only pray.”

When she’s gone, Katherine turns toward me.  “Thanks for the concern, but you were right before.  This is a good opportunity to view their lives close up.  I won’t interfere in any way.  And as for your offer to sleep on the floor?”  She tosses me a pillow and quilt from the bed.  “That goes without saying.”

∞

The Abbey

Near Little Rest, Rhode Island

May 19, 1780

Judge Potter is at the table with young Benedict when Katherine and I arrive at breakfast.  He’s clearly a man of considerable appetite, judging from the food heaped on his plate. Servants are clearing several other places and I’m delighted to see we’ve missed another meal with the Potter brood. 

The judge doesn’t look much like the portrait above the mantel these days.  His face is bloated and his once-striking black mane is now sparse on top and streaked with gray.  

“You must be John Franklin,” he says, finishing a bit of egg before he stands to greet us. “Penelope told me thou art here as a guest of the Friend.”

“I thank thee, Judge—“

He shakes his head. “None have title above the rest in our Society.  I am simply William.”  His eyes graze over Katherine, with a glint that makes me certain he’s either ignoring the celibacy rule or else having a serious struggle with Satan over the matter.  Katherine’s blush, which I found attractive yesterday, is beginning to grate.  Or maybe it’s just knowing that Potter’s gaze, rather than mine, is the cause.

“My wife, Katherine,” I say, placing a proprietary hand on her shoulder.

“A pleasure to meet thee both.  Please, join me.”

Benedict has nearly finished, and he excuses himself as the servants place two plates in front of us. I hold a chair out for Katherine and the judge gives me an odd look.  Now I’m wondering whether that custom is followed by the Quakers.

“Is Susannah improved this morning?” I ask.

“She is indeed,” Potter replies.  “Remarkably so.  The Friend has proclaimed it nothing short of a miracle.” 

Katherine’s fork clanks against her plate, but she recovers quickly.  “A miracle indeed,” she says, smiling at Potter. “The fever was raging when I sat with her before retiring.  I feared she would not last the night.”