Whisper Falls (17 page)

But where was she? It couldn't be more than thirty minutes to sundown.

I stayed on my side and flopped on my favorite rock. Gross. Wet. The falls were kicking up some serious spray. I got up and wandered around the trail until I found a fallen log to sit on with a clear view of the falls.

Two minutes passed—two minutes of nothing occupying my attention except kamikaze mosquitoes and decaying leaves. Okay, I was bored. I flipped open
Persuasion
and turned to the first page.

The first sentence was incredibly long, one hundred words or more, with commas and semi-colons all over the place. English teachers today had to be upset over that sentence.

I read on.

Jane Austen might've put a lot of words in the first sentence, but those words were doing their job. The dad was a total jerk.

When I was halfway through the third page, I felt the wind stir and looked up. Whisper Falls shimmered, its spray dissipating. Were the falls letting me know she was on the way?

Through the window of water, I watched the cliff until the sound of approaching footsteps distracted me. From far down the creek, Susanna walked stiffly along the bank until she reached the falls. I rose.

She peered at me, her hands clenched against her waist. “Have you any news about the children?”

He hopped through the falls, packages cradled in his arms. “No news yet.”

“When might we know something?” I had counted on an answer and fretted at the thought of another anxious night.

“I'll try to have something tomorrow.” He nodded toward the wall. “Why didn't you climb down the cliff tonight?”

I wouldn't mention tonight's thrashing. Indeed, I couldn't talk about the past hour at all. It would change our time together, and I wouldn't allow Mr. Pratt to ruin my visit with Mark.

“I had no fear of being followed, so I walked downstream until the land flattened and doubled back here.”

“I've never seen you do it before.” He held out his hand, palm up. “I brought you some food.”

He offered me what felt like three small logs wrapped in bright, thin, crinkled fabric. “How can this be food?”

“The food's inside. You rip off the wrapper.” He tapped one. “Each bar is like an entire meal.”

Truly? If the bar contained an entire meal, how did it taste? I shuddered to think. It must be one of their inventions, but I couldn't imagine a good reason for this change. Food ought to be a pleasure.

I had no wish to offend him, so I slipped the bars into my pockets. “Thank you.”

He laughed. “You're not going to eat them, are you?”

“I might.”

“They taste pretty good.”

“I trust your opinion,” I said with a smile.

“No, you don't, but it's okay.” He held out the second object. “You'll like this better. I bought you a book.”

I balanced it on my palm. The volume was light and slim, bound in worn, black leather. Adorning its cover were the remnants of a painting. A young woman in a yellow bonnet and green gown stood poised on a cliff, gazing pensively into the sea.

“What kind of book is this?”

“It's a novel from your time.” He paused. “Well, almost from your time.”

A novel? I shivered. How I should love to read of interesting places and peoples. Did not such a lovely painting promise lovely words? Yet, if Mr. Pratt ever learned of this forbidden treat, the consequences would be dire. It would be unwise to give him more reasons to punish me. I returned the book with reluctance.

“I cannot accept. I am not permitted to read novels.”

“Read it in your free time.”

“He decides whether I receive free time. If he knew I read novels, I would lose my break.”

Mark put his hands behind his back like a stubborn little boy. “Do you let your master control your thoughts when he's not around?”

Control my thoughts'?
I didn't like that phrase. “Mr. Pratt controls my actions. My thoughts belong to me alone.” I snapped open the book.

At the top of the first page was a pen and ink drawing of a large house with a sweeping drive and tall trees. A horse and carriage approached from the lane.

My fingertips caressed the text with something akin to reverence. Papa had once told me that a book was mere paper splattered with ink until a reader's mind gave it life. I had forgotten the thrill of embarking on such a journey.

“Come on, Susanna. What are you afraid of?”

Discovery
. If Mr. Pratt found the book, he would beat the devil out of me.

Excitement won over trepidation. He must never find out. I read the first sentence aloud. “Sir Walter Elliott…” I blinked in surprise. “Where does the story take place?”

“England. We're friends with them now.”

“We are not friends with England in my century.”

He laughed. “Pretend it takes place in New England.”

I sniffed and looked down at the book. “Sir Walter Elliott, of…” I stopped. A strange word.

“Kellynch.”

I nodded. “…of Kellynch Hall, in…” I stopped and closed the book. Reading an English writer's novel required too much effort. “There are too many unpronounceable names.”

“Skip over what you don't know. You'll get it eventually.”

“Quite the word of encouragement. No doubt I shall succeed any moment.” I opened the book again. This time I read silently, skipping over the unpronounceable names.

It was an intriguing story. Three sisters, and only the youngest was married? How very unfortunate.

When the first chapter ended, I slipped the volume into my pocket and gazed along the creek, clearing my mind of fears. I would keep
Persuasion
. There were plenty of hiding places in the kitchen or in my corner of the attic. None of the Pratts would ever know I'd read a novel.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I'd forgotten how it felt to receive a real gift, not a castoff or an impulse. He'd carefully planned, selected, and given me a present. Emotions welled inside, painful in their intensity.

“I don't know what to say. It is lovely.”

“Thank you
works.”

“Thank you.” I laughed and held my hand out to him. Even though I had nothing in return for Mark, the need to give was strong. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“I want to introduce you to Worthville.”

He didn't move. “I'm fine where I am.”

“You can only see the creek from here.”

“That's plenty.”

“What are you afraid of?” I smiled to ease the sting of my teasing.

“All right.” He crossed his arms. “Are we climbing the wall or walking downstream?”

My legs wouldn't be able to tolerate climbing this evening. “We shall go down the creek.”

He gestured for me to lead. As I walked along the bank, he hovered beside me protectively. When we reached the point where the land flattened, we stopped on the path through the tall grasses.

He stood tensely beside me. I remained quiet, allowing him to adapt. Everything about my century was gentler to the senses: crisper sights, softer sounds, lighter scents.

His body was still, but his eyes were restless.

I pointed east. “If you continue on this path, you'll meet the road from Worthville to Raleigh.”

“What about the other way?” He nodded toward the trail fading into the woods one hundred feet or more away.

“It stops at the Pratts's property.”

“The Pratts?” He dropped my hand and turned his back on my world. “What if one of them shows up? Maybe I should go.”

“If I am not worried, neither should you be.”

“Really, it's getting late.”

I bounced on my toes, eager for him to understand. “Before you leave, I want you to look up.”

“Why?” He looked to the sky, his eyes widening.

“Wow.”

Stars dotted the night, tiny white lights pulsing in the blue-black heavens.

“Is it not wondrous?”

“Yeah. There are millions of them.”

“Indeed. You do not seem to have so many on your side.” I watched his profile and hoped he shared my awe.

“No, we don't.” A slight smile played on his lips. “What day is it here?”

The huskiness in his voice puzzled me. “Monday, the thirteenth of June.”

“It's the same day in my century. And we have the same moon.” His gaze met mine. “Susanna.”

I knew a sudden shyness. There was a look on his face, a stillness to his body that had never been there before. Though I couldn't give the emotion a name, I felt it, too. We had something special. Something hard to define. Something past friendship.

“I must go now,” I said and rose up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, marveling at its velvet skin. “Thank you for the book.”

He drew me into his embrace and sighed. “Thank you for the stars.”

* * *

If novels were sinful, I should spend many nights in prayer, for this story was a delight. I could hardly bear to put
Persuasion
down long enough to retire.

It was still dark when I awakened and dressed. After setting the tray for breakfast and putting water on to boil, I entered the pantry and strained to read, hidden from view.

“Susanna?” Jedidiah called as he tramped up the back steps of the kitchen.

I pressed the book into a crack in the wall and joined my master's son. “Please put the milk on the worktable.”

He did as I requested and then faced me. “Are Papa's suspicions correct? Do you have a young man that you meet in the woods?”

Jedidiah never spoke to me on personal matters. Indeed, he rarely spoke to me at all.

“I do not have a beau.”

“I didn't think so.” His voice cracked on the final word. He stomped to the front door. But instead of proceeding into the yard, he turned and gave me a hard stare, reminiscent of his father. “I don't mind the hunt.”

In all the weeks Mr. Pratt had been sending his son to trail me, Jedidiah and I had not alluded to our evening game. Without any sign I understood him, I crossed to the hearth.

“I haven't figured out how you disappear so completely. But one day, I shall.” He stalked away.

I finished the preparations for breakfast, his words lingering in the air. His comments concerned me, although perhaps I should be glad. With this warning, I could ponder new ways to elude him.

Morning chores proceeded at an agonizing pace. I served the meal, tickled the babies, washed the dishes, and stirred the stew. Once I had a moment to spare, I took a heel of bread and slipped into the pantry. Within seconds, I was eating my breakfast and reading my book. Before I'd finished the chapter, children's voices filled the kitchen. After hiding the book, I emerged from my new reading corner to find Mrs. Pratt standing in the room with her four youngest children. I nodded briskly and busied myself with the stew. It would be a bit thin today. The lack of rain had slowed the garden.

No sooner had my mistress set Baby John on his feet than he toddled straight to me.

“Hello, big boy,” I said and lifted him to my hip with one arm. He patted my mouth with a chubby hand. I obliged with kisses.

“May we help you with anything?” Dorcas asked.

“No, indeed, not this morning. Perhaps you would like to play.”

Dorcas nodded eagerly and darted through the rear door, Delilah at her heels. I held Dinah's hand while she made careful progress down the back stairs.

Behind me, Mrs. Pratt groaned. I glanced at her over my shoulder. She sprawled on the bench, her face pale.

“Do you feel unwell, ma'am?”

She nodded, fanning herself. “I'd like some fresh cucumber. With salt.”

I stopped bouncing John to gape at her. Cucumber with salt? She only asked for cucumber when she was with child.

Realization rattled through me. Another baby.

Seven children. Yet, in 1800, there would be only four.

Three gone. Not two.

I leaned against the worktable as anguish washed over me. Which three? I had to learn the truth. When Mark returned with his news, I would hear it out, all of it. I had to know—and I would have to hide the knowing.

A sobering thought struck. The months before my mistress's confinements were never pleasant, nor would I be here for the birth. The Pratts would be desperate to find a replacement. Although my mistress would never entrust my sister with the care of a newborn, might she consider Phoebe for a housemaid?

Here was yet another possibility I must ponder how to thwart.

“Mrs. Pratt, will you have the cucumber with your meal?”

“I'd like it now,” she said with a peevish snarl, mopping at her neck with a cloth.

“Very well.” I hitched John higher and crossed to the rear door.

Dorcas beamed at me from the bottom of the stairs. “May we come with you and John?”

“Certainly.”

“Susanna,” Mrs. Pratt said, “put the baby down and do my bidding at once.”

When I lowered him to the floor near the bench, he whined and clawed at my petticoat. “No, dearest,” I said, pressing a quick kiss to his brow, “I shall return soon.”

I paused in the rear doorway and noted with concern that Mrs. Pratt rested her head against the wall, eyes closed.

“I don't mind taking him with me,” I said, foreboding quivering in my belly.

She groped along the bench until her fingers touched John's arm. “He'll only slow you down. I shall tend to my son.”

I hurried to the garden and wove frantically through the rows of faded green vines. Few cucumbers looked fat enough for picking.

“Susanna?” Dorcas called. “Wait for us. We can't keep up.”

“Not right now.” I grabbed the nearest cucumber and yanked with haste, anxious to return to the kitchen and the baby.