Whisper Falls (32 page)

The next morning I was back in the lawn business. With the temperature hovering near one hundred, I'd have to play catch up with my Monday yards another day. Finishing my Tuesday yards would be brutal enough.

Afterwards, I drove the truck down to the State Archives. I needed to make sure that history had really changed.

The same research assistant waited on me.

“Hi,” she said. “Back so soon?”

“Yeah. Same box as before.”

She eyed me speculatively. “Okay.”

I was a pro now. Flipping open the indentures file, I scanned the folders, vaguely tense about what I might find.

Deep breath in.
Happy
breath out. The Marsh folder held Phoebe's indenture with the Etons. Stepdad-to-be hadn't overruled anything.

I returned that box and made out a call slip for the marriage licenses.

When I opened the Pratt folder, Phoebe's name was no longer on the marriage license with Jethro—which was good—but another name jumped out at me. Hinton. Mr. Pratt had married a girl named Joan Hinton in October 1798.

Another call slip to see the indentures box again.

Something tickled at the corner of my brain.
Lydia
Hinton was the indentured girl from his 1800 will. Was Joan her sister?

The indentures file held a folder marked Hinton. Joan had been bound over by her aunt to Jethro Pratt on September 1, 1796.

September
first?
A month or more
before
Susanna planned to leave?

I wrote out a third call slip for Jethro's will and took it to the front.

“You're still interested in this same guy?”

“Yeah.” I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Why had Jethro signed a new indenture before Susanna left?

The research assistant made out a fresh copy of the will, a puzzled frown on her face. “It says his wife's name is Joan.”

“Yeah.” I took the document from her and paid.

“Didn't it say ‘Phoebe' before?”

It was best, in my opinion, to play ignorant. “It says Joan.”

“But it said…” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you tamper with any of these documents?”

I shook my head, although I could make a case for saying I had. Indirectly.

“If you did, that's a serious offense.”

“The security's too tight in here for tampering.”

“Wait here a sec.”

She laid the original document on the counter, pulled out a tool that vaguely resembled a magnifying glass, and scrutinized the document. Flipping it over, she scrutinized the back. With a scowl, she snapped on a pair of gloves and lightly held the edge up to her eye. She looked at me suspiciously. “It doesn't seem like it's been altered.”

“I didn't expect anything different.” I nodded politely. “Thanks.”

When I got home, I spread the documents out on the kitchen table. The will had changed from wife Phoebe to wife Joan. That change in history was fine.

But the indenture dates bugged me. Susanna and Joan would've overlapped for six weeks.

Could Susanna be wrong? Maybe the family wasn't in bad shape, after all. Maybe her master had more money than she realized.

Were two house servants a possibility? One to clean, one to cook. Or something like that. Maybe business had picked up.

Yet Susanna had been certain it wouldn't happen. I had to trust her opinion. I needed to think this through as if there was only one servant.

Once we messed with history and moved Phoebe out of the picture, Joan showed up September first. Had the Pratts released Susanna one month early? What happened in August that caused the change?

It didn't make sense.

I couldn't waste my entire day staring at these documents. It was time to do some chores that my parents would consider valuable. I went outside to get the mail. All junk. I checked the potted plants on the front veranda. All watered.

But the problem of the extra indentured girl wouldn't leave me alone. It was like a bad headache, clinging to me, annoying me.

I returned to the kitchen table and stared at copies of old, faded documents.

Maybe they had Susanna training Joan.

But for one whole month? Joan had been fourteen in 1796. She wouldn't need that much training. She would've been doing housework for years in her family's home.

History said Joan was there in September, which meant Susanna must've left in August. Where had Susanna gone?

The pieces of the puzzle shifted in my brain and fell into place. The result was horrible.

I sucked air into my lungs and felt the fear spread. Susanna had left Worthville in August 1796, and I could think of only a couple of reasons why.

I grabbed my helmet, hopped on my bike, and took off for Umstead. It was time for me to visit the Worthville ruins again and take a closer look at the gravestones.

* * *

Susanna didn't come Tuesday night. Worry had me so tense I had to find other ways to channel my energy.

Wednesday, I doubled training time on the bike, completed my regular set of lawns, and did catch-up from Monday. Then I washed my mother's car and cleaned my room.

Okay, I
somewhat
cleaned my room, but I did it without being asked.

Susanna didn't come Wednesday night, either. I waited until long after dark, then went home and managed a decent stir-fry. That rated me more concerned looks from my parents.

When she didn't show Thursday, I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to take action. Since she wouldn't come to me, I would go to her.

Friday morning, I woke up early, dressed in the costume, waited for my parents to clear out of the house, and slipped out the back door.

The falls put the first bump in my plans. The drought had thinned the creek. The water was trickling along. I hadn't counted on that. Was there enough to pass through?

I tried but knew instantly I was still in 2016. The passage through time had a tingly feel to it, and this was just wet—and not very, at that.

Freaking out wouldn't help the situation. The waterfall wanted me to connect with Susanna. Why else had it brought us together? So it had to open the portal for me right now and let me get to her.

I stepped back to my boulder and watched the water carefully. There was a pattern. Trickle, trickle, trickle, splat. I gauged the flow, watched the pattern, waited for the splat, and jumped.

That time, two hundred years tingled by.

I scrambled up the cliff and looked around. There was no one here at this time of morning. With luck, I'd make it to the house unnoticed. I crept under the cover of the woods, paralleling the dirt track, hiding in the bushes when possible.

Had Susanna told them who accompanied her to Raleigh? Did they even know yet about her sister? Was she getting punished for all of it?

Was I too late?

I reached the edge of the forest, crouched behind an old oak, and studied the Pratts's property. There was a wilting garden and a barn. The kitchen had to be the building with a thin wisp of smoke curling from its chimney. The main house and the other buildings looked abandoned. No one was around, although I did hear a baby crying.

On the way here, I'd created a loose plan—based more on hope than fact—of darting from building to building until I reached the kitchen where, statistically speaking, Susanna had to be. Seeing the actual farm shot the plan. There was a hundred feet or more of open space to cross.

I didn't know their routines. Had they eaten breakfast? Would the kids be out soon to play? Had Jethro left for work?

A door opened at the rear of the house. Susanna came out, carrying a tray loaded with dishes. A young girl skipped beside her. They entered the kitchen.

I couldn't risk going there while she had a visitor. But after a few minutes, the young girl skipped out again and returned to the main house.

Should I give it a shot?

While I stood there considering my options, the bushes thrashed beside me.

“Hello,” said a soft voice. A girl appeared and smirked at me with the confidence of someone who thought she was pretty. I recognized her. The Pratts's oldest daughter.

I waffled between “oh, crap” and “cool.” For the moment, I'd go with “cool,” since it suited my purpose.

“Hey.” I smiled like I was happy to see her. She could be my ticket to seeing Susanna.

“Why are you here?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

That question had an obvious answer. Either she was delusional or messing with me. Probably best to go with a full frontal attack.

“I want to talk with Susanna.”

She engaged in a bit of eye-rolling. “Papa has forbidden her to leave the yard, and he's promised to flog you if you come around.”

“I am not interested in being flogged,” I muttered, looking past her to make sure a pissed-off Mr. Pratt wasn't lurking nearby.

“Don't worry. Papa will be at the mill until suppertime.” She blushed. “We have a new horse. She is quite beautiful. Would you like to see her?”

The way a girl stares when she considers a guy cute obviously hadn't changed much over time, because this one acted like she had a crush on me. How had that happened so fast? I'd only been around here a couple of times.

Really, I should view her crush as a gift and use it to my advantage.

“I'd like to see the horse, but could I talk to Susanna first?” I gave her my best imitation of a smoldering smile.

“Perhaps.” She fluttered her eyelashes some more and sauntered toward the kitchen.

Susanna emerged a minute later and ran to the woods, glancing over her shoulder often. She stopped at the edge, scanning the underbrush.

“Mark?”

“Over here,” I said from my spot several feet off the trail.

She remained still as a statue until her gaze found mine. “You shouldn't be here.”

“You didn't come to the falls, so I came to you.”

“I cannot leave, not until my indenture ends.”

“I'm here to change all that.” I held out my arms. “Why aren't we touching?”

She met me halfway. I hugged her tightly, savoring the closeness. The worry of the last few days faded. She was alive and well, and I was going to keep her that way.

“Mark? I can't breathe.” Her laugh came out on a gasp.

“Oh. Sorry.” I loosened my grip. “I'm just glad you're okay. Has Pratt been acting odd?”

“Terrifying.” Her face retreated into a haunted look. “If he finds us together…” Her voice trailed away.

“I'm fine with my chances.”

She glanced nervously over her shoulder, her voice roughening. “Please, you must go. My master will beat you if he finds you here.”

“I'd like to see him try.” Her warning snapped me out of my fog, though. I had to refocus on the mission to get her out of here. “You're in danger, Susanna.”

“How?”

I needed to ease her into this. “Mr. Pratt is about to hurt you badly. I want you to move to my world.”

“You asked me once before and I refused. My mind hasn't changed.” She twisted to squint at the yard. Three little girls had burst onto the lawn, dancing and giggling. “Now leave, before Deborah alerts my master.”

“He's replacing you.”

“What?”

“In seven weeks, your master will sign a contract for a new servant.”

She went completely still. “That can't be true.”

“It is true.” I pulled a copy of Joan's indenture from my pocket.

She snatched the sheet from me, eyes narrowed. “He's binding her for housewifery?”

“Yes, Joan is taking your place on September first.”

Her head made jerky motions side to side. Denial crackled from her body like an invisible force. “No, there must be a mistake. Mr. Pratt has only just returned from begging from his brother. He brought two adult slaves with him. We can't feed another person properly. There is no room left for a second household servant.”

“You're right. Joan will be the only one.”

“Where will I be?”

“Gone.”

“I wouldn't run away, not this close to the end of my contract.”

“You won't be running away.” I handed her a photo I'd taken at the cemetery. “We have a special kind of painting, called photography, in my century. Here is a photograph of a gravestone.”

“Why are you showing this to me?”

“Look at the name and the date.”

Her lips moved as she read, the words faint.
Susanna Marsh, August 3rd, 1796
.

She stared up at me, her face pale, disbelieving. “This can't be true. He'll be careful with me now. He won't lose control again.”

“What do you mean? When did he lose control with you?”

“He…” She shook her head. “It's behind me. He won't go so far again.”

One day, I would get to the bottom of her comments. But for now, I had to get her out of here—even if it meant shocking her senseless.

“Susanna, the photo doesn't lie. Jethro Pratt is going to kill you.”

I despised my master. He'd been cruel from the day I arrived. His humiliating treatment of me last week showed a greater capacity for depravity than I would ever be able to forgive. Yet I couldn't believe he would hasten my death.

“He can be brutal, but he isn't a murderer.”

“Maybe it's an accident. Maybe he hits you too hard. But why do you care? It has the same result.”

Could Mark be right? Mr. Pratt's demeanor had indeed sharpened toward me. He skulked around the property, watching me like a bird of prey.

We all lived in fear of his unpredictable temper. Since Theophilus had arrived, the chores at the homestead had lightened, but the addition of Frederick hadn't increased the business at the mill. Even with millstones for wheat and corn, there were too many people taking their grains to Ward's Crossroads. Mr. Pratt left each morning hopeful and returned each evening seething.