A Whisper in Time (34 page)

Jacob Worth? His offer shocked me. Could he truly wish to marry someone whose heart belonged to another?

I had no objection to Jacob. He was a good man. But he wished to farm orchards, and Phoebe had never lived farther than a ten-minute walk from town. How would she fare in isolation?

October 4th, 1801

William waited for me after worship service today, boldly approaching me, uncaring of those who would see us together. He pressed me for an answer
.

I cannot find the words. My indecision is agonizing for us both
.

He claims that Edenton delights him, that he has not given a passing thought to New Bern, but I do not believe his protestations. He gives up much for me. Can I ever be enough?

I know what it is to love, and it makes me sadder than any grief I have ever felt
.

* * *

October 5th, 1801

For a girl who worried that she would never receive an offer of marriage, it is overwhelming that I have received two
.

One promises a life of ease with a revered husband. The price is the constant worry that someone will discover I was his housemaid when we met
.

The other life will be harder. I shall move far away—to a place where few have gone before. No one will care about my beginnings; there will be no time to wonder about such things. When I do have leisure moments, I shall indulge in my love of sewing instead of the useless pastime of serving tea
.

One man I love with the sweetness of a dear friend. The other I adore with all the passions of the soul
.

With Jacob, I shall have a life of contentment
.

With William, a life balanced between secrets and joy
.

Where are you, Susanna? I need your counsel
.

It was the final entry. The journal had ended.

What did she decide? It was maddening. I had to learn more, and I would, whatever it took. Thank goodness my skills with the computer had improved.

I searched for Phoebe Marsh, Phoebe Worth, and Phoebe Eton. There was no information on any of those names in the nineteenth century in Raleigh, Edenton, or Buncombe County.

Perhaps I should study the gentlemen instead.

I started with Jacob Worth. I was relieved to find him mentioned on the website at Blue Ridge College. A college student had written a paper about nineteenth-century settlements in the surrounding counties. Eagerly, I opened the document and read.

Jacob Worth had died in a logging accident at the age of 37. His second wife had borne him three sons, each of whom lived to adulthood. And there—at the end of the paragraph on Jacob—was a simple yet heartbreaking statement. His first wife died in childbirth.

The writer of this document failed to name either wife.

I searched next for William Eton. Thankfully, the
Edenton Gazette
had been a weekly publication. The Archives had many of its issues online, although not all years of the newspaper had survived.

There was one mention of him from 1801, expressing excitement that Dr. Eton would be their new physician. The article didn’t say whether he was married.

The issues jumped five years to 1806. Two articles surfaced on the computer. One laid profuse praise on Dr. Eton’s head for his skill with fevers.

The second article left me numb.

It described the house fire of a prominent citizen and discussed two other fires from recent years. Dr. William Eton’s mansion on Albemarle Sound had burned to the ground in 1804. His wife had perished.

Whether she chose Jacob or William, my sister would die young.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-S
IX

T
HE
T
EMPTATION
TO
T
AMPER

It was quiet in the apartment when I got home from school. I grabbed a snack and went up there to check on her.

The door stood ajar. I rapped twice and then pushed it open. “Hey.”

She sat at the table, staring blankly at the screen. Her eyes tracked to me. “Hello.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I seek information on Jacob Worth and William Eton, but there is little to find.”

Worth and Eton? I recognized those last names. “Would Jacob Worth be from Worthville?”

She gave a short nod.

“And William Eton is one of
the
Etons?”

“Yes.”

I had the sense something was about to change, and that I wouldn’t like it. I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs, set my snack on a placemat, and gave her my full attention. “Why are you researching them?”

“They have made Phoebe offers of marriage.”

Maybe I had my history screwed up, but I thought girls wanted to be married back then. The earlier, the better. Maybe not, though, because Susanna looked seriously upset. “Are they bad guys?”

“They are both fine young men.”

That should be good news, but she looked like she was about to pass out. “Which one did your sister pick?”

“I do not know.” She pressed her palms to her eyes.

“Have you learned anything?”

“Jacob’s wife died in childbirth. William’s wife was lost in a house fire.”

The sense of impending doom deepened. Susanna had messed with history when she saved Phoebe’s thumb. Had that made a difference in who Phoebe married and how long she lived?

It was too late to know, but it had to be tearing Susanna apart. I needed to reduce the temptation to tamper any more. “Let me see what I can find.” I took over the keyboard.

My efforts didn’t make a difference. William and Jacob were easy enough to find, but the first names of their wives weren’t. “Sorry. I didn’t have any luck.”

“Where else can we look?”

I wanted her to drop this. I also knew that wasn’t likely to happen. “Do you want me to check at the Archives?”

“Yes.” Her face remained neutral, except her eyes. They glowed with hope. “Might you do so this week?”

I stood and pushed my chair in. “I’ll try.”

She stood too. “You’ll be gone all weekend.”

I wasn’t sure whether the manipulation was conscious or not, but it was working. “I’ll take the truck tomorrow and go straight from school.”

“Truly?” She launched herself into my arms.

Holy shit, I liked the way she said thank you.

* * *

I came home from the Archives empty-handed. She read it on my face the minute I walked into the house.

“Sorry, babe. I checked Wake County from 1801 through 1804. There are no surviving marriage records for Jacob, William, or Phoebe.”

“I am sorry too.” She followed me into the family room.

I flopped onto the couch and held out my hand. She took it and curled up beside me.

The trip downtown and back had been a nasty mess of traffic and non-existent parking. I’d need a moment to recharge. “Deborah Pratt married Aaron Foster in the summer of 1801.”

“Truly? Aaron and Deborah? They suit.”

I choked off a laugh. “You have snarky down.”

She sniffed. “Did you try other counties besides Wake?”

“No, it was closing time. They were pushing people out.” I hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her onto my lap. “I don’t know how much harder we can try. If she did marry either one of them, the license could’ve been lost or destroyed in a courthouse fire, which happened a lot. Or so I was told.”

She reclined against me. “I must do something.”

The steel in her voice sent a shiver down my spine. I shifted her around until I could see her face. She looked very determined. “Why must you?”

“It is my fault that it came to this.”

“Why is it your fault?”

“I told her that marriage between classes was possible where I lived now. She has allowed herself to believe it was possible there too.”

“Is there really that big a gap between William Eton and Phoebe?”

She frowned at me. “Would the President consider marrying the woman who cleans the toilets?”

“He’s already married.”

Susanna gave me a look.

I let my head drop onto the couch back, too drained by battling traffic to sit up any longer. “Okay, if he were single, it’s unlikely the President would marry the cleaning lady. Not a good career move.”

“Indeed. In Phoebe’s time, it would be an ordeal to live where their secret was known. They would be foolish to entertain such a notion.” She slipped off my lap and walked to the window overlooking the front lawn.

“Maybe she marries Jacob.”

“They do not want to marry each other. Perhaps they believe that, since they cannot marry the person they each love, then a friend will be good enough.”

“Who does Jacob love?”

“Dorcas.” Her voice was flat. “She is too young, and she is lame.”

I twisted on the couch until Susanna came into view. Her forehead pressed to the glass as she stared at the front landscaping. Minutes passed—minutes of total silence. It worried me. “What are you thinking?”

“I must get a message to my sister.”

That was chilling. “To say what?”

“My advice about what she should do.”

“How will that message get there?”

She shrugged.

I rocketed off the couch and stalked to her side. She avoided looking my way.

“Dammit, Susanna. Tell me you won’t go back. You’ll get caught this time.”

Her chin lifted. “I shall not make promises I cannot keep.”

“You already promised.”

“My loyalty to my sister comes first.”

Great. She was considering this. Could I make her realize how completely insane the idea was? “Fine. So you go back and you make it all the way to Raleigh without being caught—even though Pratt knows you’re alive and might even have people out looking for you. Let’s say you reach your sister. What advice are you planning to give?”

“To marry neither man.”

Frustration hissed through my teeth. “I thought girls back then wanted to marry.”

“They did.”

“More than anything. Like it was practically a necessity.”

A nod.

“How does Phoebe feel about these two guys?”

“One she loves as a friend. The other she loves as a…” Susanna sighed.

“As a soulmate?”

“Indeed.”

“So the two men she loves most in the world have proposed, and you’re going to tell her to wait around in case there happens to be a third.”

She tossed her head with attitude. “Her position as a seamstress is a good one. It could sustain her long enough to meet another man and marry.”

“Her
third
choice could be a jerk who beats her.” I wanted to shake her. “And Phoebe could die in childbirth anyway.”

Susanna deflated. “I had not thought of that.”

“Which is why you have me.” I pulled her into my arms, hoping that what I’d said got through to her. “Leave Phoebe alone to live the best life she can.”

“I cannot bear…” Her voice trailed to nothing.

“You can’t save her from this one, Susanna. Please put it behind you.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-S
EVEN

A R
EASONABLE
S
UGGESTION

I lay in bed later that night, gazing at the ceiling, pondering what I should do.

Mark’s words had been wise. Of course, he was right. Phoebe would ignore my advice to marry neither man. In returning to the past, I would risk my freedom to no avail.

Perhaps, instead, I should advise her on which of the two to marry. After all, she did ask my advice.

But whom did I think would be best?

Jacob could give her a simple life, a life that she would understand and enjoy quietly. Certainly his interest in farming and his willingness to move to the wilds of the North Carolina mountains hinted at unknown depths.

I found myself also warming to William, who had been so bewitched by my sister that he was willing to fight his world for her sake.

Both were fine men.

Yet I knew something that they couldn’t know. Phoebe wouldn’t live long with her husband. Should I allow this knowledge to inform my advice?

Indeed, yes. What value was there in living in the future if I didn’t embrace its benefits?

* * *

As Sherri and I drove home from a lovely hour of shopping on Wednesday, we passed Mark on his bike not far from the entrance to the neighborhood. Dismay tugged at my gut. I didn’t wish to discuss my purchases.

Once the car had stopped in the garage, I hurried upstairs and hid the bag before he could get home.

Below me, I heard the noises of his arrival and opened the door to eavesdrop. In the laundry room, Sherri banged the lid of the washing machine. The tread of Mark’s shoes crossed the floor.

“Gross, Mark. Kiss me after you’ve showered.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

They both laughed. His footsteps faded toward the kitchen and hers followed. I tiptoed to the stairwell, straining to hear.

“Did you have a good day?” she asked.

“Yeah. Great.” The fridge opened and closed. “Where’d you and Susanna go?”

“To the fabric store.”

“Why?”

Merciful heavens, she was going to tell him.

“She wanted lace, thread, and buttons.”

“Buttons?”

“Yeah, gorgeous buttons made of wood and glass.”

I slumped onto the top step of the landing. I had taken a chance in not begging her for silence.

Mark asked, in his most nonchalant voice, “How many?”

Please, Sherri. Don’t…

“Forty or so.”

A bottle slapped down hard on the countertop. His footsteps sounded on the stone floor, headed this way. I stood and ran back through the door of my apartment.

“Is something wrong, Mark?”

“I’m about to find out.” He thundered up the stairs and walked in without knocking.

I stood rooted to the floor in the center of the room. He approached me, jaw taut.

“What are the buttons for?”

“Phoebe. They are currency where she lives.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, eyes blazing. “You get points for not lying.”

“I do not need ‘points.’”

“When were you planning to go?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Would you have said anything?”