The Widow's Walk (16 page)

He hoped that he could help Constance, but he harbored no illusions about how impossible that might be. He'd never been particularly religious, nor did he have any interest in what might be called “the metaphysical arts.” Being an architect meant that he was part artist and part scientist, and it seemed to him that whatever happened to Constance so long ago had nothing to do with either of those disciplines. Even so, he now believed that her plight was linked to forces of the universe that might be known to only a chosen few, if anyone. And that, he realized, would only make helping her all the tougher.

Even so, like his father he was at least willing to admit the possibility of esoteric dynamisms in the world. He needed a mystic, or a medium, someone who dabbled in such strange happenings, or who could at least point him in the right direction. This would be a walk into uncharted territory, and he found the prospect daunting.

Last night Constance told him that since her fall from the widow's walk she had never left the property. Maybe it was time for him to change that. The more he thought about it, the more surprised he became that she hadn't already raised the issue, for one might have thought her desperate to see how the world had changed. It then occurred to him that her staying at Seaside might have been due to fear. No matter, he decided. He would ask her anyway, and if she chose not to go then so be it.

One corner of Garrett's mouth wryly turned up again as he considered the realities of such a bizarre situation. If Constance did say anything to him in public, he would have to resist the inclination to turn and look at her. Or, God forbid, he might slip up and actually answer her back! He shook his head with skepticism. Clearly, taking Constance out into the world would be risky.

He yawned sleepily. Because he had gotten no rest last night, the need to sleep became overpowering. He shuffled into his bedroom, where he pulled the shades and turned off his phone. After removing his clothes, he settled into bed.

But just as sleep overtook him, Garrett's vision seemed to explode into countless shards of blinding white light. The moment the shards disappeared, he realized that he was no longer in his condo. He had inexplicably traveled to another place, and he was making love to a woman.

When next he opened his eyes and looked down, to both his horror and delight the woman in his arms was Constance.

She lay beneath him as he held her, galloping with him, begging him for more. Stunned beyond belief, he looked into her beautiful blue eyes and found himself entranced. The same exquisite sense of sexual longing that he had felt when they first touched hands several days ago was upon him yet again, and strengthening past any hope of control. All he could think about was taking her, just as she relentlessly begged to be taken.

To his great shock, he saw that they were in the master bedroom at Seaside. The room was furnished with antebellum furniture and illuminated with whale oil lanterns, telling him that he had somehow gone back into the past. No detail had been overlooked, and a fire burned brightly in the master bedroom fireplace, its flames casting ghostly shadows across the walls and ceiling. He and Constance were in a huge four-poster bed, and as she ran her fingers through his hair and begged him for more, he at last looked back down onto her face and took her. When he did, it was far and away the most intense experience of his life. When he was at last spent, he rolled over onto the magnificent bed unconscious.

H
OURS LATER
, Garrett woke up to find that he was back in his condo. After waiting another ten minutes for his mind to clear, he threw on his trousers and shirt, and left the bedroom. Grabbing up his bottle of Jack Daniel's and a clean cocktail glass, he shuffled out onto the patio and sat down. The sun was beginning to set, and stars were gradually taking its place. To his further astonishment, he had slept the entire day away.

After pouring three fingers of whiskey with shaking hands, he drank it all at once, and then immediately poured some more. His nerves were beyond the point of being frayed. He wasn't sure whether he had experienced a hallucination, and the very idea of such a thing frightened him right down to his core. His mind awash with questions, feelings, and fears, he tried to calm his breathing and make some sense of it all.

What he had just experienced with Constance had been so genuine that had anyone asked him, he would have sworn it was real. He had been there and made love to Constance, he just knew it. But at the same time, how could that be? The more he tried to understand, the more confused he became. Perhaps of even greater consequence was that he seemed to have somehow actually gone back in time, only to return to the here and now.

Should he tell Constance about it? he wondered. And if he did, what would be her reaction? Did he really want her knowing that he was falling in love with her, and that this dream—if indeed it really was a dream—was something that he had relished? Would she accept his explanation? Or, God forbid, would she instead feel violated by it?

He quickly gulped down some more whiskey, but even now the alcohol was having no effect on his nerves. He desperately wanted to feel numb, but as if it were being denied by some higher power, that sensation still eluded him. His body trembling noticeably now, he suddenly felt more lost and alone than at any other time in his life.

He then put down his glass, placed his head in his hands, and wept.

Chapter 15

While Garrett desperately tried to calm himself, several miles away Constance was enjoying the veranda at Seaside. The onshore breeze was strong tonight, causing the waves of the Atlantic to bear whitecaps as they rushed the coast.

She would be lying if she said she did not miss him, for he had already become a huge presence in her life. She also knew that he would do his best to help her escape this terrible existence. But like Garrett, she had absolutely no idea about how to do so, and that realization was depressing.

She liked Garrett very much, and she had to admit that her feelings for him were growing. But Adam remained the love of her life, and even now Constance could not bring herself to love another. Then again, during her purgatory here at Seaside there had been no real chance for any such affairs of the heart. What will it be like, to live here with Garrett? she wondered. Just how attracted to him would she eventually become? Was that something that she unconsciously wanted?

Only time can provide the answers to such things,
she thought.
And even then, I may not wish to know them.

Suddenly her head began to swim. As the feeling intensified, she soon realized that she was experiencing the same sort of disorientation that had overcome her, just before being taken back in time to Adam.

Suspecting that another such flashback was imminent, Constance stood from her chair and hurried on shaky legs into the dining room. When she reached there she fell to her knees, her mind once again totally consumed by the same strange and overpowering phenomenon as before. Moments later she curled up onto Garrett's sleeping bag, unconscious.

“F
OR
C
HRIST
'
S SAKE
, can we get on with it, Canfield?” the man in the black waistcoat shouted angrily at Adam. “Or were you planning on hiding behind your woman and your house servants all day? I always said that you are a coward, and you're starting to prove me right!”

Stunned by what she was seeing, Constance was doing her best to fight back tears. She was dressed in a light blue hoop skirt, silk slippers and a high hat, its satin ribbons tied into a large bow beneath her chin. She was standing on the long, narrow patch of ground that lay between Seaside's veranda and the rocky Atlantic shoreline. It was an early fall day, the tree leaves just starting to turn. Also dressed rather formally, Adam stood beside her. Eli, James, and Emily Jackson were also here, their dark faces bearing stark expressions of concern.

Some distance away stood two other men, both of whom Constance knew. One was Jack Rackham, an infamous New Bedford tavern and brothel owner. Rackham was a large and very vain man, with piercing dark eyes and a balding head over which he always combed loose strands of dark hair. But today the sea wind had dislodged those carefully arranged tresses, causing them to fly about and make him look faintly ridiculous. From time to time Rackham regarded Constance with a hugely libidinous glare, as if at any moment he might dare scoop her up and carry her off.

Rackham was not a fellow with whom to trifle. Rumor had it that he had by now killed five men; three of them by formal duel, and two more whom he had beaten to death following verbal altercations in his infamous tavern. Be it fisticuffs or firearms, he was clearly adept with each.

The other man was named Yancy Kilgoyle and was well known for doing most of Rackham's dirty work; he had reputedly killed even more men than his vicious employer. He was a short, greasy-looking creature who also wore a waistcoat suit, plus a top hat. His eyes were close set, and his longish, dark hair protruded haphazardly out from under his hatband.

But Rackham's lecherous glances were not what bothered Constance the most. Soon her hands began shaking so badly that she could no longer hold her parasol, so she placed it gently on the ground. Trying to fight back tears, she did her best to calm herself. However it was to no avail, because there was nothing she could do to stop what was about to happen.

Very soon now, either Jack Rackham or her beloved husband, Adam, would be dead.

Adam had been home from his most recent sea voyage for only two months. During that trip he had taken a liking to a young, Irish crewman of only fifteen years named Sean Fahey. Fahey had clearly been scared and inexperienced, and when Adam asked him about himself, Fahey confided that he had been shanghaied out of Rackham's saloon. This was not the first time that Adam had heard of such goings-on in Rackham's place, and now that he had firsthand knowledge, he was infuriated. During his long times at sea he had seen many examples of forced servitude, and he hated them all. For Adam was not only an abolitionist. He despised slavery in any form, and to his mind being shanghaied certainly qualified.

Upon arriving home, one of the first things Adam did was go to Rackham's tavern and confront him about the Fahey boy. Rackham had smiled nastily and told Adam that not only was he free to make money any way he chose, but that if Adam knew what was good for him, he would hightail it straight back out the door for the coward that he was.

The argument escalated until Rackham slapped Adam across the face, whereupon Adam immediately demanded the satisfaction of a duel. Rackham quickly accepted, and the time and place were set right there and then. The weapons of choice would be pistols. Yancy Kilgoyle would serve as Rackham's second, while Eli Jackson would serve as second to Adam.

Overcome with fear, Constance turned and looked at the table that had been set up on the grass. Each man had brought with him four loaded pistols, all of which lay atop the table. By mutual agreement, this would be a duel to the death. If each man missed the other, they would take up fresh pistols and try again. If one or both of them was wounded but the injuries were not serious, they would try again. Until one of them laid dead, or one or both of them had sustained a wound that was considered mortal, the process would continue to its bizarre conclusion. Eli and Yancy would also be responsible for reloading the respective weapons, if need be.

My God,
Constance thought.
This is insane! There are even rules for this madness! Why must men be so honor bound?

Rackham looked at Adam and Eli then he beckoned them nearer. As they approached, Rackham smiled, revealing several holes where teeth had been.

“I have something to tell the both of you,” Rackham said. “After I've killed you, Canfield, my man Kilgoyle is going to murder this here manservant of yours. And when you're both lying dead at my feet, I'm going to give that pretty little wife of his to Yancy. Then I'm going to drag Constance into the house, where we will get to know each other much, much better.”

At Rackham's obscene mention of the women, it was all Adam could do to keep from choking him barehanded. But that would do no good, for it would leave Yancy Kilgoyle as a witness, and then he would have to be killed too.
No,
Adam thought. God willing, he would simply have to kill Rackham first. Because if he failed, what happened next was unthinkable.

Instead of answering Rackham, Adam pulled Eli aside. Eli was a big man and a good shot, but most importantly, Adam trusted him. Placing his face close to Eli's, he began issuing some final orders.

“Now you listen carefully to me,” Adam whispered. “If I'm killed, I want you to run like hell back to the gun table. Scoop up all the pistols you can carry then hurry back to Constance and Emily, and the three of you head straight for the barn as fast as you can. Open the cellar door and get all the male slaves up and out as quickly as possible, and arm as many as you can. That's the only thing that will stop Rackham and Kilgoyle from raping both of our wives. Doing so will forever reveal Seaside as a slave station, but that can't be helped. Do you understand me, Eli?”

Before answering, Eli turned and again glared with hatred at the two other men.

“Yes, sir, but if you fall dead, first I'm gonna pick up a couple of those guns and shoot both them bastards dead.”

Adam shook his head vehemently.

“No, Goddammit, you listen to me!” Adam said. “If you try that, Rackham will kill you! If I'm dead and Rackham remains alive, your only hope will be in numbers. And those numbers can come only from the barn! Promise me you'll do as you're told!”

“All right, then,” Eli answered angrily. “But once I do everything you say, I'll see to it that both them bastards lay dead, one way or the other.”

“That's up to you,” Adam answered. “Now let's get on with this.”