"A fun read with romantic possibilities blended with visits with a woman from the past as two lives run parallel to each other. The settings are like open doors that offer the reader a look at times past and how the present has changed them."

—Anne K. Edwards

Hannah Clare Mystery Series

"In Lost in the Mist, W. C. Keesey has done a masterful job in her description of the grueling anguish of America's Civil War. Against this tragic backdrop, she has blended past and present to create a story that will intrigue fans of time travel, romance and mystery."

—Donna H. Parker,

Donovan's Dream

donnaparker.w4aw.org

My Bob. Without who's encouragement and help, this book would still be a dream.

To all my critique partners, a special thanks for helping with this book, especially Mary Emmons who was with me from the beginning. And to all those who helped with the historic facts, Daniel Nettling, my Civil War source, to Connie and Jack Lee, for character inspiration, John (my re-enactment source) and Terry Hoover for the initial idea and so many interesting talks and information, and the Fredericksburg Park Service for the time they spent answering my questions and allowing me access to documents, maps and books. A heart felt thanks for the folks at Wings ePress, especially Lorraine for giving me this chance, Lizzie for her edits and kind words, and Richard for the great cover art. Thank you all. Without support, there is no bridge.

Why does it always rain at funerals? Or does it? Connie tried to remember if it rained the day her father was buried, or her grandmother. Aunt Dee died in February and it snowed during the graveside service. Did that count?

Maybe it just seems like it always rains because death is sad for those left behind. The people who attend make their own rain with the tears they shed. Tears of sadness and loneliness. Tears of fear, too, she thought, fear of the future without this person. And fearful of the reminder that everyone must die.

She was alone under the dark canopy, but it didn't matter. Now that the service was over, Connie wanted to be alone. She wanted to leave the small gathering of her mother's friends and few remaining relatives and be alone with her memories and grief. She was thankful there wouldn't be a wake.

It had been a small funeral. Her mother had planned everything, right down to the music. She hadn't wanted an open coffin. “You know what they always say,” she told Connie. “'Doesn't she look good? Just like she's going to get up and say it's all a joke.’ Well, Connie, I don't think a dead person looks good. I think they look dead and I don't want my friends to remember me dead."

Elizabeth Hart suffered for six months as she fought the disease that took her life. Ovarian cancer had been found during a routine physical and just a short, agonizing half year later, she was gone.

"Is there someone to drive you home, Ms. Hart?” The funeral director's assistant was close enough for Connie to smell his breath mint. She had to look down to meet his eyes.

"I'll be fine, Mr. Klahr. If you'll take me back to the funeral home, I'll get my car,” she said, accepting his assistance over the uneven ground to the limo that waited in the narrow cemetery lane.

Connie endured the ride in silence, watching the blur of houses and plant life. She wanted to lash out at someone for bringing this pain into her life. She wanted to blame someone, to hurt them the way she was hurt. For twenty-seven years she'd had her mother beside her, ready to wipe the tears and fix the hurts. But there was no way to stop these tears or to fix this pain.

A man was waiting on the porch when the limo stopped beside the stately “Bassett's Funeral Home". Connie remembered seeing him at the service and wondered how he knew her mother.

Connie thanked Mr. Klahr and headed toward her car balancing her umbrella and, digging for the keys in her small purse.

"Ms. Hart?” The man descended the steps and walked toward Connie.

"I am. But I don't believe I know you,” Connie said as she found the key ring and gave it a tug. Her change purse fell to the ground. Frustration threatened to overwhelm her. Angry with her clumsiness she stooped to retrieve the leather case, dropping her umbrella.

"Please, Ms. Hart. Allow me.” The man handed her his own oversized black canopy.

Connie watched as he brushed off her change purse and shook her blue umbrella before closing it and fastening the strap. He was middle aged, maybe a little younger than her mother. He was clean shaven and not unattractive. He wore a plaid beret, dark brown trench coat and rubber covers over his shoes. Gray hair showed at his temples. He was nearly as tall as Connie.

Taking his umbrella with one hand, he handed Connie her possessions and walked with her to her car.

"My name is Arthur Fitch. I was your mother's attorney."

I didn't know Mom had an attorney. Connie unlocked the car door and waited.

"We were friends, too. I promised Liz ... She didn't want you to..."

No one called my mother “Liz". No one but my father. Connie stopped listening. I have to get away from here. I have to think. She looked at the lawyer, briefly wondering what relationship her mother had with him, but not really caring.

"I can stop by your office next week if that's convenient.” She turned toward her car, and unlocked the door.

The lawyer hesitated. “Your mother wanted you to be comfortable. She said you didn't like stuffy offices. If you're free now I can follow you to your apartment. I have everything in my car. I know it's difficult, but your mother wanted you to have some things."

With a sigh, Connie turned back to face the lawyer. Her mother was right. She hated being pinned down by appointments. It was a chore for her to make her annual physical.

"It's all right. I live in Harrisburg, on Second Street. The address is—"

"I know the address. I'll meet you there.” He reached past Connie opening her car door.

She slid into the seat, threw her purse on the passenger side of the Honda, and tossed the wet umbrella on the floor. “Okay,” Connie said. “I have to make a quick stop first, but I won't be long."

The engine started the instant she turned the key. The “door open” reminder beeped. She glanced at the attorney with what she hoped was a friendly smile. He closed the door with a slam that made Connie cringe. Without looking back she pointed the car and headed for the exit.

A silver Cadillac was parked in one of the two spaces marked for apartment “4C,” her apartment. Mr. Fitch sat behind the wheel holding an open folder and apparently reading the papers from it. The motor was still running.

Connie pulled her tan Prelude in beside the Caddie and cut the engine. She didn't want to get out of the car.

Her hand still held the car key in the ignition. There's nothing to stop me. I can drive as far as my money would take me. I can leave this behind. Phillip's deceit ... Now Mom. Tears filled her eyes and started to track down her cheeks. Taking a tissue from her purse she wiped her face and blew her nose. A dull headache pressed behind her eyes.

A soft tap sounded on the car window.

Connie looked up to see Mr. Fitch bent over and watching her. Quickly she closed her purse and retrieved her umbrella. As she pushed the door open, she hit the lock button.

"Sorry, Mr. Fitch. I hope you haven't been waiting long. I had to stop at the store for a few things.” As she talked, Connie put the strap of her purse over her shoulder, and popped the button on her Totes umbrella while she moved to the trunk.

"Can I help with those?” The attorney asked, indicating the plastic bags in the trunk.

"I can manage, thanks.” Connie caught the handles of the bags and lifted them from the trunk. When they reached the main entrance, she unlocked the door and pushed it open. She led the way to the only elevator. Pushing the button she waited for the doors to open.

"Sorry, I don't usually bother with this thing. It's so slow, but...” Connie said.

"Why don't I take some of your bags and we can go up the stairs.” Mr. Fitch held out his hand.

"It will be faster ... are you sure you don't mind? I really hate to ask you to..."

"You didn't ask. Please."

Connie gave him two of the bags and went to the fire stairs. She didn't mind climbing the steps to the fourth floor, and it was good exercise, but today the dull concrete steps seemed to go on forever.

The lawyer behind her was an anchor, dragging her down, a reminder that her mother was gone. She wanted to turn and yell at him to “go away” to “leave me alone,” but instead she pulled her keys from her pocket and opened the two locks.

"Come in, Mr. Fitch, and make yourself comfortable. I'm going to heat some water for tea. Would you like some? I have instant coffee too, if you prefer.” She stepped into the small kitchen area to the right of the door. “You can hang your coat and hat on the coat tree. I won't be long."

"Coffee sounds good.” He followed her into the kitchenette and put the bags on the counter before hanging up his coat. He returned and gathered Connie's coat, hat and umbrella.

Connie watched him as she started the water. He wore a gray pinstriped suit under the coat. His neatly groomed hair was dark except for the splash of gray at his temples that she had noticed earlier.

She put her purchases away and arranged some homemade cookies on a plate. “Would you like milk or sugar, Mr. Fitch?” she asked.

"Neither, thank you."

She carried the cookies and a bowl of mixed nuts to the sitting area, leaving the cups on the counter. The attorney was sitting on the sofa, his unopened briefcase and a plastic bag sat on the floor next to him.

He could be a thief casing my apartment, so he can come back when I'm at work and rob me blind. What a laugh. I don't have anything worth stealing.

"Help yourself, Mr. Fitch. The water will be ready in a few minutes. Do you mind if I change? I won't be long."

Why am I asking a total stranger if he minds what I do in my own apartment? Connie didn't wait for his answer, but headed for her bedroom.

"Of course not. The cookies are great. Did you make them?"

Stopping at the short hallway, Connie turned. “Yes, thank you. I'm glad you're enjoying them."

God I sound like such an idiot. She continued to her bedroom and resisted slamming the door shut behind her.

Connie pulled a warm navy blue sweat suit out of her dresser. All the time knowing her mom would have a fit if she saw her wearing sweats when she had company. But he'd invited himself, and she didn't feel like being the perfect hostess.

Arthur Fitch was sorting through some papers, his case open on the sofa, revealing more papers and folders. The plastic bag was folded and placed under a scarred wooden box on the coffee table. Steam rose from his cup. He looked up as Connie went to the kitchenette.

"I helped myself to the water. I turned the burner down, but it should still be hot."

Connie didn't respond. She poured water over a tea bag and spooned sugar into the steaming brew. Opening an overhead cabinet she took down a bottle of generic pain pills and shook out two. She used a glass of tap water to wash them down before carrying her cup to the recliner.

"It's been a difficult day, Mr. Fitch. Will this take long?” Connie put the spent tea bag on the nearly empty cookie plate.

"No. I just have a few things to go over with you concerning your mother's property and there are some papers for you to read and sign. If you're ready we can get started and I can be out of your hair in no time.” He held a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Okay, get it over with.” Connie put her cup down and reached for the papers. “Why was it that this couldn't wait till next week?"

"There are some things that your mother wanted you to have right away. She thought they would help you—comfort you after she was gone.

"Of course everything goes to you as her only child. She made some stipulation as to some special pieces of furniture and jewelry, but the rest is yours.

"The top paper you're holding is the will. The next page is a list of the bequests that I mentioned. Next is for the disposal of Liz's ... your mother's condominium. She wanted me to handle the sale, unless of course you want to keep it, in that case I'll handle the transfer of ownership. But Li ... Mrs. Hart left me with the impression that you didn't particularly like her condo."

"No, I don't. It's too big for one person. But I'm not sure ... can I keep these papers to read and sign later, Mr. Fitch? I really can't concentrate right now and I don't want to do something I'll regret later.” Connie couldn't focus on the words or their meaning. “I'm afraid this is a wasted stop for you."

"Ms. Hart, I know how hard this is for you. I tried to tell Liz that it wasn't a good idea, but she insisted.

"I don't expect you to sign anything right now. And I will be happy to go over all these papers with you some other time at your convenience. The will has to be probated first at any rate. Here's my card.” He pulled an ivory business card from his coat pocket and put it on the coffee table. “Call if you have any questions. Keep those copies to review when you can. I've filed the will. Our office has a tax attorney who can take care of your mother's final return. I'll contact you when that procedure is completed and we can schedule an appointment.” He removed a large manila envelope from his briefcase.

"There's one last thing. The main reason for this visit is this envelope and box.” The lawyer put his manicured fingers on the wooden container. “Your mother said you should look at these things in private."

Standing with his briefcase at his side, he offered his hand. “It's been a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Hart. Your mother talked about you often."

Connie stood and took the offered hand, but remained silent.

"Thank you for your hospitality. I'll wait for your call."

Connie watched him don his coat, galoshes and hat and go out the door. She stood in front of the recliner with her arms tight across her chest. In her mind her mother was admonishing her for her rudeness.

She cleared the coffee table and put the plate and cups in the dishwasher after dumping her lukewarm tea down the drain. Her stomach growled to remind her that she hadn't eaten since the previous evening when all she'd been able to stomach had been half a tuna salad sandwich.

"Connie Hart,” her mother would have said, “you'll get sick if you don't eat. Sit yourself down and have a bowl of soup."

Soup. Yes, some bouillon. The water was already hot and it would warm the bone deep chill, she thought.

The powered mix dissolved quickly. Rich beef flavored aroma filled the room, making Connie's mouth water. Maybe some sharp cheese and an apple. She sat on one of the high stools at the breakfast counter, facing the living room to eat her meal.

She was swallowing the second quarter of the Royal Gala when Connie realized that she was staring at the dark box sitting on a white plastic bag on her coffee table. The sweet flesh of the fruit suddenly lost its taste.

Sliding off the stool, she walked to the sofa and sat. The spicy scent of the attorney's aftershave lingered in the air. Funny she hadn't noticed it earlier.

The box was the size of a large Stephen King novel, with a brass plate and key hole. What had looked like scarring was in truth an engraving of two flags. The flagstaffs crossed in the center and the banners unfurled on the sides. One was an American Flag with fewer stars than the crowded banner now displays. The second was the flag of a Pennsylvania regiment but was too worn to make out the designation. Connie tried to open the lid, but found it locked.

Where had her mother gotten the box? Puzzled, Connie picked it up. It wasn't especially heavy. What could be in it? Why didn't Mr. Fitch give her the key?

Mr. Fitch. He left an envelope. It was still on the sofa. Connie leaned back and held the yellow package on her lap. She really didn't want to open it. She knew her mother probably wrote her a letter “to be delivered after my death” and she didn't want to read the words. She wanted to imagine that her mother was still alive and well, to sense her presence. Putting the envelope on top of the wooden box she rose and went back to her cooling broth.

The TV was on. A rerun of some innate sitcom quietly droned on without an audience. Connie slept fitfully in the recliner. A burst of canned laughter woke her.

For a few seconds she couldn't remember where she was, or why she was there. When her head cleared, Connie wished she could go back to the fog.

Tears had wet her cheeks and dried while she slept. Elizabeth Hart had lived and died again in Connie's dreams. A sob escaped, she tried to control the torrent of tears, but it was no use.

After a quick shower and a hot supper, Connie returned to the living room with a cup of tea and a paper plate of cookies. Her curiosity was beginning to overcome her sorrow.

"I can't mourn forever,” she said. The words rang hollow in the small apartment. “Besides, Mom would have a fit if she saw the way I'm acting."

Reaching first for the pile of documents the attorney left, Connie quickly scanned the will and list of bequests. The lawyer would act as executor. She read the sale agreement for the condo. It was fair and she would probably sign it. All that was left was the envelope and the box.

Connie's hand shook as she picked up the bulging envelope. She had a good idea what she would find inside. A letter from her mother, maybe some pictures, or instructions for the disposal of her belongings. Why did her mother think that she should have this right away? It must have been important to her.

Stalling, Connie washed the last cookie down with the last of the tea and brushed her fingers off on a paper napkin before using the letter opener to slit the package open. She looked through the yawning gap. Pictures, a bundle of yellowed envelopes tied with a faded ribbon, a stack of papers and another envelope. This one was business size. There was no address or name on the outside.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the smaller envelope and slid out two sheets covered with her mother's handwriting. Her hands shook as she dabbed at her tears and unfolded the pages.

Connie,

I know this is hard for you, but there are some things that you need to know.

If you're reading this letter, I'm beyond telling you and I don't want you to be sad or sorry about that. You've always been a good daughter, one I've been proud of, and you've been a great friend.

I was sorry about what happened with Phillip, for your sake, not his. He didn't deserve your loyalty and certainly not your love. I'm proud of the way you've lived your life. I know I've told you how I feel, but I want you to have them in writing so you can read them over and over and remember how much you mean to me.

Do you remember the long hours that you spent helping me ‘climb the family tree’ as you would say? I know that I've already told you most of the story of our family, but you seemed to lose interest when you starting thinking about boys and I left some things until I could get your full attention. I think I have it now.

I've put some items together and given them to Arthur Fitch. You can trust him, Connie. When your father died without a will, I found Arthur in the phone book. He was a young lawyer but very capable. He's proven his value as a friend and council many times over the years. I've asked him to deliver some things to you the day of my funeral. I know you won't like this, but trust me “Mom knows best."

Connie put the letter and package aside and went to get more tissues and a glass of water. It hurts, Mom. How can this help now? Maybe sometime down the line, when it's not so fresh. Looking at the papers on the sofa, Connie could hear her mother patiently tell her to finish the letter. Mom did seem to know just the right thing to do to make her feel better. After filling a tall glass with ice water, Connie went back to the living room.

Arthur brought you a wood box and an envelope. You've opened the envelope or you wouldn't be reading this letter. You may have already looked at the pictures and papers in the envelope, but I'll explain what they are anyway.

The pictures have been passed down in the family. They are of your great, great, great grandparents, Drew and Amanda “Mandi” Kosgrove. I know the pictures are showing wear and fading. And I don't think they were very clear in the first place, but they are a link to the past.

The papers are the genealogy that you helped me with. I hope you will preserve it for your children and add to it for them.

The box is special. Drew made it for Mandi. The pictures and box have been handed down for generations. It's been said that Mandi told her son, Wolfgang, that the box would someday go to a very special person and only she is permitted to open it. She would live during a time of wonder and she would know that the box was for her.

I received the box from my mother as she lay on her death bed and although I have the key, I've never opened it. Whether it's true or not, it's said that no one has made the attempt all these years. Now it's been put in your care.

The key is in a velvet bag. The bag also holds Mandi's wedding ring. I don't know if you remember the stories that I told you about the ring. It's unique in design and it's engraved, “M your love holds my heart D". The ring is too small for any of our family's women, but it has been used in all our marriage ceremonies and is said to bring happiness to the couples. True or not, we've never experience a divorce.

Well, that's everything I think. You can read about your ancestors in the genealogy. It's interesting reading. But I warn you that you won't find much about Mandi. If your curiosity is aroused, you could try to continue the search in that direction.

Daughter, your father and I were proud of you as a child. I'm proud of you as a woman. You were brought up to exhibit good sense and show kindness and trust to others. Even as I sit and write this letter, I know that you will one day have children to carry your goodness into the future. I'm only sorry that I didn't live long enough to meet them.

Try not to be sad that I'm gone. Death is the way of all life, just as love nurtures us and makes us strong enough to accept the end.

Mom

It was true. The family tree on Drew's side went back to a few European relatives who ventured the journey to the new world in seventeen oh nine, but Mandi's started with her marriage to Drew, the date marked only as sometime in eighteen sixty-four. The only other notations were her birth and death, November fifth, eighteen forty-three to June second, nineteen thirty-five.

Connie was surprised to see that Mandi was born the same day as she, more than a hundred and thirty years earlier.

Drew had served with the Union forces during the Civil War and had been seriously wounded in some unknown battle. He returned home blind in one eye, with partial loss of hearing in one ear, the limited use of one arm, and with a bride on the other arm. Together they built a thriving business near Philadelphia, and Drew even dabbled in local politics.

The pictures were difficult to see, even with a magnifying glass. One was of Drew sitting in a cane rocker, smoking a pipe, on a plank sidewalk in front of a store. “Kosgrove's General and Dry Goods Store, Cherry Grove, Pennsylvania” was painted across the façade above the doorway. Another was a family or church gathering. Everyone was dressed in their best Sunday-go-ta-meetin’ clothes. They were gathered on a lawn scattered with oak, hickory, elm, and maple trees. Some men and women sat in the shade on what appeared to be benches and straight backed chairs apparently brought out for that purpose, some stood in groups. One of those standing in the shade was a small woman wearing a white dress and wide brimmed sun hat. She stood with a group of other women. Connie couldn't see her face, but the note on the back said that the woman in white was Mandi.

There were many more pictures; none were dated before nineteen ten and none after nineteen twenty-five. Someone had written notes on most of them with years and names but no other details. Again her mother was right; the pictures were very hard to make out. Carefully she put them in her desk, between the pages of her own picture album.

The only items left were the bundle of letters and the black velvet jewelry bag. Putting the letters aside, Connie held the bag in her hand. The ring in this bag would have been used to bless her wedding to Phillip. If she had married him, Connie knew theirs would have been the first divorce to mar the family history.

She clutched the small bag in her fist and closed her eyes.

The day she'd found out ... was it only two months ago? She had been devastated but now she knew she had narrowly escaped a bad marriage and deceitful husband.

It had been raining that day too, but Connie had felt happier that she ever had before. She was going to be married.

Phillip Dickson was a vice president with an advertising firm. He worked hard, spending many evenings and weekends at the office and taking at least one business trip a month. Connie knew he was doing it for their future, so she had tried to be supportive.

She had planned on surprising him at his office with a picnic lunch. Taking the day off from her own work as a free lance writer, she had spent the morning preparing the deep fried chicken, garden salad, and peach cobbler. She'd even chilled a bottle of wine overnight. Connie knew that Phillip never took lunch before twelve-thirty and seldom left the office. She planned on arriving by twelve-fifteen.

The secretary's office had been empty, but her computer screen-saver was alive with tropical fish. Seeing the steno pad and pen in the middle of the desk blotter, she'd believed Diane had gone to lunch already.

With a smile, Connie went to the office door. The top half was frosted glass and she heard someone talking. Phillip must be on the phone, I'll be quiet so I don't disturb him.

When she pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, she'd been surprised to find the room dark, the blinds pulled and no lights on.

Connie had always thought the office was more like a living room with the conversation center, bar, and bookcases. The big oak desk with its brown leather executive's chair and two visitors’ chairs seemed misplaced.

Someone was on the oversized leather sofa near the windows. Maybe Phillip was taking a nap. Did he talk in his sleep? She walked quietly over the thick carpeting and put the basket on the floor.

"Phillip, are you awake honey,” she'd asked quietly.

The small sounds suddenly stopped. The room had gone dead quiet. “Phillip?” Puzzled Connie tried to see past the gloom.

"Connie, what are you doing here?” His voice sounded husky.

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry. I just thought we could have lunch..."

"Did we have an appointment?"

Connie's eyes had adjusted to the dim room and she could see movement on the sofa, but something was strange.

"Are you alone, Phillip?” She had moved to the window and yanked the blinds open.

Connie smiled sadly thinking how surprised they had all been, Phillip, his blond bombshell secretary, Diane, and Connie, the suffering but ignorant fiancé.

Well I guess you weren't alone were you, Phillip?

A knot had formed in her stomach as she watched the naked couple disengage their intertwined body parts. Diane's long blond hair nearly hid her bare breasts, but nothing else.

Connie had been the first to speak. “No, Phillip, we didn't have an appointment. I thought I would surprise you with a picnic lunch. People who love each other do things like that.” Even then she couldn't believe how steady and calm her voice was. Inside she was raging. If she had had a gun—she thanked God she hadn't.

Diane grabbed her clothes and headed for Phillip's private bathroom. Phillip was busy pulling his pants on.

"Oh, don't bother. I won't stay.” Connie picked up the basket and went to the door. “And Phillip, the wedding's off."

"Connie, please listen to me. Diane means nothing...” were the last words Connie heard from Phillip.

She had stopped and given the lunch to some bag-ladies sitting on a bench at a bus stop near the Capitol building and started driving. Connie was half way to Pittsburgh before she stopped at a truck stop and used the restroom. While she washed her hands she watched the diamond sparkle on her finger. She pulled the ring off and went to the trash bin, but she had stopped. No, I won't throw it away, I'll hock it.

With a smile of satisfaction, she'd gone to the truck stop restaurant and ate a hot meal before returning to the city.

She was able to get twenty-five hundred dollars for the ring. She put the cash in an envelope and sent a note signed with Phillip's name and business address, donating the money to the “City Women's Shelter,” a home for unwed mothers.

There was one more thing she'd done before blotting Phillip from her memory. Connie put the pawn ticket in an envelope and sent it to Phillip's home address.

Connie loosened her grip on the small bag. Opening her eyes she held out the dark blue velvet.

Mandi Kosgrove's wedding ring, and a key to a mysterious box that would someday be opened by someone who would know it was meant for them. But not her, Connie Amanda Hart, it wasn't meant for her. She would put the box, key and ring in a safe deposit box and pass them on to her children.

She had seen the ring many times. Her mother would tell her about it and bring it out, but she never put the ring on her finger. Opening the bag, Connie shook out the two items. Someone had had the foresight to wrap the key in a separate piece of cloth to keep the two metal objects from marring each other.

Picking up the ring, Connie wondered that any grown woman could be so small. Mandi had been petite, standing tall just under five feet. Drew had towered over her at five ten. There was only one picture of her ancestors together, that was in front of a neat frame house with a small yard. It was taken in nineteen fifteen and both of the Kosgroves had been in their seventies. A battered work hat shaded Mandi's face. She wore heavy coveralls with the legs rolled up, over a long sleeved work shirt, and heavy work boots.

Grandma Mary told Connie that Mandi and Drew had lived in that house most of their married lives. When Drew died in nineteen twenty, Mandi agreed to live with her grand-daughter.

Connie held the small ring between her fingers. It's so little; it makes me feel like an oaf. It was battered and scarred from years of wear but there was something—it wasn't just the way the three broad band were woven together, or the inscription that she knew was inside—there was a feeling too. Connie slid the ring onto the little finger of her left hand, a perfect fit.

Mandi, would you mind if I wear your ring? I'm not married and don't have any prospects—but it looks—right, yes, it looks like it belongs. I promise I won't lose it. As if to show she intended to keep that promise, Connie pulled at the ring; it was firmly set and wouldn't come off easily. No diamonds, but it's worth more than a king's ransom to me.

Connie curled up on the sofa with the bundle of yellowed letters, content to read the past, and avoid the present.

Am I dreaming? Of course I am. Connie watched the fog swirl slowly in the muted light. Nothing to fear, there is nothing to fear in this dream. It is peaceful and ... safe, yes, safe.

A figure appeared, her form slowly taking shape. The brim of a battered man's hat hid her face, gnarled fingers wrapped around a garden hoe. Her drab brown dress dusty, the limp colorless apron spotted with smudges of soil.

Who are you? I know you, but ... Connie tried to remember the woman's name.... so familiar...

One soiled hand reached for the hat. Connie held her breath.

The woman's weathered face looked back at her. Wrinkled skin, darkened by a lifetime of working in the sun, still couldn't hide the sparkle of her dark blue eyes. As Connie watched the lines around the ancient mouth and eyes deepened into a broad smile.

The fog thickened, the light dimmed, consuming the figure.

"No,” Connie groaned, as the image faded. “I need to talk to you.” Stirring, she moaned with frustration, the dream was lost, the woman was lost, and Connie was forced back to reality.

"Are you all right, child?” A voice, quiet and trembling with age whispered.

Reluctantly, Connie opened her eyes, rubbing her forehead as she tried to push sleep away. “Yes, I guess I was dreaming."

The bus must have stopped while she was sleeping. When they left Harrisburg, she was alone, the aisle seat remaining unoccupied.

Connie turned, looking into watery blue eyes. The wrinkles on the old face framed by gray hair, softened as the thin lips smiled. I know her.

A butterfly caress caused Connie to glance at her hand. She shivered under the old woman's icy touch, curling her long fingers into her palm, she moved her hand to her lap.

"That's a unique ring.” The old woman pointed to Connie's hand.

Connie smiled, holding the ring up so they could look at it. “It was my great, great, great-grandmother's wedding ring.” Connie put her hands back in her lap. She twisted the ring, a habit she developed since inheriting the heirloom as part of her mother's estate last fall. “I wish I knew more about my great, great, great-grandparents. All I have are some old pictures, a few letters, and an incomplete genealogy."

Still smiling, the old woman listened. For a second Connie thought she had placed her companion, but just as fleetingly the feeling disappeared.

"Tell me about yourself, dear.” The woman's voice barely carried over the hum of the bus tires.

"There's not much to tell. I'm on my way to complete an assignment.” As she talked Connie strained to grasp the thread of memory. “What about you? Where are you headed?

"You work, then. What do you do?"

She doesn't want to talk about herself, Connie realized before answering the question. “I'm a freelance writer."

"Are you a good writer?"

Tilting her head, Connie answered. “Yes, I am and I enjoy what I do. I like to travel and meet people."

"Good. Your great, great, great-grandmother is proud of you."

What a strange thing to say. Connie looked thoughtfully into the blue eyes. As she opened her mouth to speak, her companion abruptly stood and turned to face the back of the bus.

"I'm sorry, dear,” she was saying, “I must use the necessary. When you get old, you can't wait too long. I've enjoyed our little talks."

For the first time, Connie noticed the drab brown dress the old woman wore. Its high necked bodice, with buttons from neck to waist and skirt that almost reached the ground, marked her as a throwback from another time. I'd be willing to bet that she's wearing high-topped button shoes. All those old photographs, is that why is she so familiar? She looks like she just stepped out of an ambrotype. Deep in thought, Connie watched as in spite of her obvious age, the woman seemed to glide down the narrow aisle. What did she mean she's “enjoyed our talks"? Closing her eyes, Connie put her head against the high seat. I'll ask her when she gets back. Her thoughts drifted as sleep once again took over. She smiled at the old woman's antiquated choice of words, the “necessary".

The white mansion of the Bradford family was no longer silhouetted on the horizon. All that remained is an empty field. Stunned, Connie wondered what happened to it.

Even though she had never been within a hundred miles of Fredericksburg, Virginia before today, she was as certain that the classic southern plantation house had once graced the hilltop, as she was that her name was Constance Amanda Hart. An icy chill crept down her spine.

Connie waited until the other passengers cleared the aisle before leaving the bus herself. What was she forgetting? She checked her belongings again. No, she had everything. But there was something ... What could it be?

Claiming her dark blue suitcase, Connie pulled the recessed handle up and balanced her briefcase and laptop against it, securing them with a bungee cord. She walked the length of the platform, intent on finding a taxi.

Travelers coming and going filled the air with the excitement of beginning vacations, and meeting friends and relatives.

She stopped and turned. Had someone called her name? Glimpsing a stooped woman wearing a tattered brown coat, a cold wave of déjà vu overpowered Connie. Taking a step toward the bent figure, her hand raised in greeting, Connie watched a middle-aged couple take their elderly relative under wing. She didn't know this woman at all, but there was someone ... someone very old ... Suddenly self-conscious, Connie lowered her hand, looking around. No one seemed to take notice of her. She headed toward the cab stand.

Entrusting her luggage to the first driver in line, she gave him the address of Fraiser's Rest.

Once settled in the cool interior, Connie tried to relax and survey the city, as the cab skillfully dodged between and around cars and tour buses. New structures cluttered the outskirts of the city trying to lure the tourist trade. Nearer the town, they passed rows of buildings, most of them old, some left to the elements, many turned into antique shops and businesses that supported the tourists; clothing stores, pharmacies, restaurants and boarding houses.

As they approached a light on busy Princess Anne Street, Connie leaned forward. “Can you drive down by the river? There's something there I'd like to see."

"Sure.” The driver's reply was followed by a chorus of horns blowing in protest as he changed lanes.

Sophia Street followed the Rappahannock River. They edged into the line of traffic headed back into the center of the town.

"Can we go the other way?” Connie asked looking to her right. The road seemed to end a block away.

"Yes, but there isn't anything out that way. Buildings are falling down and..."

"That doesn't matter. Please, go that way."

They passed the last of the many small parking lots used by sightseers so they could walk along the river. Noticing them only briefly, Connie focused on the distant gray steeple. She knew that place.

Soon the houses fell behind the dirty red and white cab.

The little church stood alone. Two wide steps led to the double doors. “Stop here a minute,” she instructed as they approached the old structure.

"Amazing.” Leaning forward, Connie's blond curls bobbed as she shook her head. “How did I know?"

"What'd you say?” The driver looked over his shoulder.

"Just thinking aloud. It's an attractive little church,” she added. I know that it isn't featured in any of the travelogues I've read—at least I don't remember any mention of it. Her head spun. But it must have, how else would she know so much about it. Still too far away to read the plaque next to the door, Connie whispered the words, “Chapel of Mercy, A Church of the Episcopalian Faith. Built in the late eighteenth century it served the community as a hospital during the Civil War."

Louder she said, “Okay, You can go back."

As the cab approached the corner, Connie knew the driver would go to the corner past the cemetery, and turn right, then turn right again at the fourth intersection, the house is a few more blocks.

Every turn followed as she knew it would. But how did she know? She had never seen or been anywhere near here in her life, before today.

The cab stopped ten minutes later in front of a narrow, two story building. The sign in front announced that it was “Fraiser's Rest, Bed and Breakfast, inquire within". Connie searched her purse for the fare with shaking hands. Giving the driver a generous tip, she took charge of her baggage and stepped onto the narrow porch.

The late afternoon sun cast the building's shadow onto the cobblestone sidewalk, making the porch cool, but not cool enough to explain the icy knot in her stomach.

The door was different than she remembered. Connie expected to see the scarred wood planking still serving as a weather and security barrier. Instead it was replaced with a modern hollow steel door, designed to look like the original, but they had forgotten the miniball holes and the scars left by cannon ball fragments. The porch too, was a new addition, replacing the short brick path leading from the wood sidewalk to the entrance. And of course, the wood was now concrete.

The door swung open as Connie reached for the ornate doorknocker.

"...a few more things.” A dark figure backed through the door, his attention on someone in the interior. He turned short of making contact with Connie, filling the doorway. “Well, hello."

He's so tall! Connie smiled up at the man, at five-eleven not something she was often able to do. And handsome, too. Quickly she took in the tousled dark hair, streaked with sun bleached strands, surrounding his rugged good looks, the heavy brows shading hazel eyes, not too straight nose, square clean shaved jaw, and the wide mouth, smiling down at her. His skin was tanned an even bronze, not the splotchy pattern her own took on after hours in the sun.

"Hello, I'm looking for the Fraisers.” Connie watched the smile crinkle the corners of his eyes. He had to be at least six-four.

"You've found them.” The man's deep mellow voice vibrated the air.

"I'm Connie Hart, Mr. Fraiser.” Her disappointment surprised her. “I have a reservation. Your wife and I talked about an article I'm writing."

"Welcome, Connie Hart.” His hand swallowed Connie's in a warm grip. “I'm Brian Eckart. Betty's inside. I'm a guest."

A flood of relief threatened to embarrass her as Connie smiled. So he wasn't Carl Fraiser.

"Let me help you with your bags.” Without waiting for an answer, he set the luggage inside the threshold and with a gallant sweep of his arm welcomed her to the house.

"Betty, you have a new guest,” Brian raised his voice to call into the building's depths. As he went out the front door, he explained, “I have a few more things to get from my car. Leave your luggage here. I'll bring them up when I come back,” and he was gone.

Connie felt the force of his absence. A strange loss of stability, an anchor cut loose from a boat, she was left to drift on her own.

The foyer seemed dark after the afternoon sun. The cool air made the hair on her arms stand up, or was it something else? Was it the feeling that she had returned? Was it the feeling that she was home?

As she studied the prints on the walls, a matronly woman emerging from the shadows, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Hello, you must be Connie Hart. Welcome to Fraiser's Rest. I'm Betty Fraiser.” The newly dried hand felt warm, soft and slightly damp in Connie's.

"I've been anxious to meet you, Mrs. Fraiser. Yes, I'm Connie Hart. I couldn't find much more than the background material you gave me, I hope you had better luck.” Connie followed her hostess through open doors on the left side of the narrow hall.

Having learned the history of the house from the letters she and Betty had exchanged and from some research she did on the area, Connie was ready to do an “on site” investigation into the house's history.

All she knew for fact was that Dr. Maxmillian Wolfgang Brentwell had the house built and moved his wife and two small children to Fredericksburg from Boston in eighteen forty-four.

"Please, we're very informal here. Everyone is on a first name basis. I'm Betty, and my husband is Carl. Val is our day-girl. You'll meet the other guests at supper.

"We have some paperwork to deal with, but it won't take long,” Betty explained as they walked through the room. Among the many wood chairs lining the room were small tables holding dried or silk flower arrangements and several glass display cases. “This was the Doctor's waiting room. We use the room in the back, the examination room, as a library/office combo."

They entered the cluttered office. “I've put some things together for you.” She indicated the stack of folders and envelopes sitting on top of a thin, red bound book. “I'm excited about the article you're going to write."

Connie tried to concentrate on her words, but her eyes kept wandering to the many antiques around them. The jumble of past and present. A PC monitor perched on the corner of the old desk, looked natural and right among the old books and pictures. They were her past and her present. She knew them all as familiar friends, the doctor's instruments, the old mantle clock that at one time had graced the fireplace mantle in the master bedroom, and a PC was her own instrument of work. They all blended to make up her world.

"I think you'll find these papers interesting. And of course, I'll be happy to answer any questions you have."

Betty went around the desk and started putting information on a card, asking questions as she wrote. “Okay, all done, you sign here.” The pen pointed to an “X” next to a blank space at the bottom of the printed form.

Leaving by the hall door, Betty led Connie back to the front of the house. Her bags were gone. “Ah, Brian must've taken your luggage upstairs. Your room is next to his. You'll be sharing a bathroom. I hope that's all right. You each have an adjoining door that locks on both sides. I think you'll find the room comfortable. We've added air conditioning, a small concession to the comforts of modern man, and it helps preserve the antiques.” Betty climbed the stairs as she talked.

Connie followed carrying the historical papers. Her hands burned with anticipation, but the smells from the kitchen reminded her that she hadn't eaten since the stale donut and weak coffee in the bus station snack bar early that morning.

She found her luggage next to the door Betty opened. The two women put the bags inside the room. Carefully Connie deposited the pile of documents on the straight-backed Victorian sofa.

A pair of teenagers stared at her from a painting hung in the center of a grouping of silhouettes and ambrotypes on the wall behind the sofa. Connie asked over her shoulder, “Who are the children in the picture?” She knew the answer before Betty confirmed it.

"Max, Jr. and Victoria, Dr. Brentwell's children. The red book is a transcript of Victoria's childhood diary."

The voice went on, but Connie didn't hear the words. She was caught up in the images before her. The daughter standing beside a wing backed chair, and the boy sitting. Young Max's carefree attitude showed in his unruly hair and the mischievous smirk on his handsome face. The girl by contrast looked somber and uncomfortable, but determined. She stood to the right of the chair, holding a book at her waist. Enough of the title was presented to show that it was a Bible. Victoria had the same dark hair as her brother, but hers was neatly parted in the center, pulled back and tied in place with a ribbon. The loose bodice of the high necked dress was a typical mid-nineteenth century costume. Victoria's dark eyes held Connie captive. Why was she drawn to this child?

Brother and sister shared many of the same features, dark eyes and hair, full lips and slightly turned up noses. While Victoria's cheeks were high and rounded, and her chin firm, Connie wondered if she was clenching her teeth, Max Jr.'s face was broader, the lines straighter, his jaw heavier.

This boy wooed the girls and frustrated his sister. Connie knew it was hard for them to sit for the portrait.

"...when you're ready."

Connie's thoughts shattered, she turned her attention to her hostess. “I'm sorry, Betty, my mind was drifting. What did you say?"

"That's all right, I know you're tired. I just said I'll leave you alone so you can unpack. Supper will be ready in forty-five minutes.” Betty opened the wardrobe, checking the pile of fluffy blue towels on her way to the door. “If you need anything, just ask me or Val. Enjoy your stay.” The door closed quietly behind her.

Connie needed something, answers. Why did she feel as though she'd been here before? Not just once or twice as a visitor, she knew everything about this house, the mantle clock in Betty's office—even the chip out of a stone on the fireplace mantle.

Connie looked toward the empty grate. The fire built there in the fall and winter served to heat the room, she remembered the feel of its warming blaze.

Slowly Connie moved past the canopy bed, and found the damaged stone near the wall. Her trembling fingers traced its rough edge. Max, Jr. had broken the marble after coming home from a weekend of drilling with the home guard. He had been drunk with excitement, full of adventures to tell his sister. His enthusiasm made him careless as he demonstrated his prowess by brandishing his hunting rifle with a butcher knife fastened to its barrel to serve as a bayonet. Connie remembered the incident clearly.

She could see Victoria hanging sprigs of lilac in the wardrobe to freshen her garments. She thought of the black servant who brought fresh candles and put water in the pitcher for washing.

How...? What...? I have to get a grip. Connie's hand shook as she took it away from the cold marble. I'm here to work, not to indulge in fantasy. Always a practical person, she decided the job of unpacking would keep her feet on the ground and mind in the twentieth century.

She started toward her suitcase. I'm forgetting something, something important. Something I have to do here, at the fireplace.

Taking a step back, Connie searched every inch of the wall with her eyes. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she knew she had to find it. Leaning over she looked in the open mouth of the fireplace. No, it won't be in there. The chance of damage was too great. A loose stone then. In the hearth? No, they were all solid. Letting her hands and inner feelings take over, she closed her eyes, and felt the rough stone wall. It wasn't built from the marble that served as a mantle. This stone had been gathered from the riverbanks nearby. It had been a hot summer that year. Connie could sense the workers, the heat that sapped their strength, their pride in a job well done.

I've found it. Opening her eyes Connie discovered she was kneeling on the floor in the corner. Her hand rested on a small rock that didn't fit the general appearance of the rest of the wall. It stuck out just a little too far. The size and shape made it possible to grip the stone. Pushing it sideways and then up and down, Connie found that it was loose. Working it carefully back and forth, she was able to slowly pull out the stone. Placing it gently on the floor, she looked into the dark opening.

There was something, a darker shadow. Reaching into the void, she gripped the object and pulled it out, bringing a small pile of dirt and dust with it.

Connie turned the oblong block over in her hands. Was it something Victoria had hidden?

Absentmindedly, she rubbed the rough dark cloth with her fingertips. Whatever it was, someone had taken the trouble to use a remnant of the wine colored drapes from the parlor to protect it. The cloth was brittle and dry, and caked in a thick layer of dust. It had been in its hiding place for a long time. Connie became aware of the windmill that had taken over her head.

...remnant of the wine colored ... Where had that come from? Looking at the block in her hand, she could see that the cloth was dark with soot and soil, no color was visible, yet she knew that it had been a deep burgundy, just like she knew it was there in the first place.

Closing her eyes, Connie took deep breaths, releasing each slowly. She quietly chanted over and over, “Get a grip. Get a grip,” as she had many times since her mother's death.

"Dinner's ready.” The muffled call came from below.

That must be Val. Holding the bundle in one hand, she replaced the stone and stood. “I have some cleaning to do,” she said as she looked at the scattered dirt. “But first I have to find a safe place to keep this.” Walking to the wardrobe, Connie slid it inside her suitcase, under her sandals.

Satisfied that her strange find was secure, she went to the door, turning before opening it. “I'll be back, Victoria,” she whispered.

Brian heard voices in the office when he returned with his camera cases. Even though it had taken him longer than he had anticipated, having met Carl on his way back, Ms. Hart had not finished registering.

The man liked to talk and although Brian thought he had a lot of interesting things to say the urge to get back was strong.

He gathered the waiting baggage, picked up his own and cautiously climbed the steps.

They would be neighbors. Betty had told him he would be sharing the bathroom with another guest, a woman, unless he objected. He hadn't. A smile, one of those reserved for the small unexpected pleasures in life, narrowed his eyes. He had expected a matronly school teacher type, with white hair and reading glasses. Instead Ms. Connie Hart was young, and attractive. Her curly blond hair set off her fair skin and dark blue eyes. Her nose had just the right tilt; her lips were full and lightly tinted with lipstick. When she smiled her eyes sparkled like a child's at Christmas time. And she was one of the few women he could look in the eye, beautiful eyes at that, without getting on his knees.

Setting the bags down next to the tall, narrow door, Brian started humming an old Frank Sinatra song, “Stranger's in the Night” as he went to his own room next door.

He was almost finished unpacking when he heard muffled voices next door.

If I wait until I hear her door close, I could escort her to supper. As soon as the adolescent thought formed, he put it aside. I'll go down alone and wait for her there.

Pulling his notebook out of the larger of the two camera bags, Brian started listing the buildings he wanted to photograph, referring to brochures and guide books. His interest was in the little known and seldom noticed sites, but he would start with the more obvious, looking for the others at the same time. His hand paused, poised over the neatly printed list. Maybe he could coordinate his trips with Connie's research. With a shake of his head, Brian wondered why this woman affected him this way.

Following the sound of voices, Connie located the dining room. Brian towered over the couple he was talking to as they took turns filling their cups with hot beverages.

"Hello, I see you found us.” Looking past his companions, Brian greeted her warmly. “Help yourself to coffee, tea ... well, you can see what's here, but first let me introduce you.” Extending his arm toward Connie, he included her in the group. “This is Tracey and Joe Handley. Among other things Joe is a Civil War re-enactor. Folks, this is Connie Hart, she's a writer."

Connie's eyebrows lifted. “How do you know I'm a writer?"

"You mentioned an article you were researching,” he reminded her.

"Of course, I'd forgotten.” She smiled.

Desperately trying to focus on her companions, Connie's eyes were drawn to the far corner. A gaping hole in the outside wall let the cold winter wind blow into the empty house. In the distance she could hear the thunder of cannon fire.

Suddenly she felt alone and afraid. Am I going out of my mind? She watched as the hole and debris disappeared, returning the room to its present day appearance.

"Are you all right?” Brian stood next to her, his forehead furrowed with concern.

Connie saw that the Handleys, too, were watching her with worried looks. “I will be. It was a long trip and I didn't get much sleep last night.” But she had slept on the bus and had dreamed something about an old woman.

"You need to sit down.” Brian pulled out one of the chairs at the table and waited for Connie. “Tell me what you want to drink."

"Just some ice water, thank you.” Connie hated being the center of attention. “What do you do besides re-enacting, Joe?"

She heard the words as Joe told her that he was a truck driver, local not long distance, but they didn't have much impact. She wondered what visual effects were taking place behind her.

"What type of writing do you do?” Tracey asked from across the table, a steaming cup of in front of her.

The question tried to bore through the fog in Connie's head. She looked at Tracey, as she mentally shook free of the cobwebs. “My specialty is the Civil War...” She heard herself complete the dialog on her career. “I'm doing a series of articles for a travel magazine on bed and breakfast vacation spots. Fraiser's Rest is the first."

The woman's dark brown eyes studied Connie. “You picked a good place to begin. Fredericksburg is packed with history.” Smiling at her husband, Tracey pushed long, silky brown hair off her shoulder, revealing more of her face. “We've been here at least twice a year for the last six years. Joe's re-enactment group, the 23rd Virginia Volunteers, they're also known as the Richmond Sharpshooters, make the tour every year. Then we come back for a vacation."

Her bearded husband nodded in agreement. His hair was almost as long as his wife's but lighter in color, and thinner. It was caught at the nape of his neck with a rubber band. Connie had no trouble envisioning him as a Confederate soldier. He looked the part right down to the belt buckle displaying the “CS” of the Confederate States.

"I'd like to interview you, if you're willing to be the subject of an article.” An idea began to form, a feature for one of the Civil War magazines that bought Connie's work, maybe several articles from different angles. She looked from Joe to Tracey and back. “Both of you? I would like to get the wife's point of view, too."

With a shrug Tracey agreed. “Sure, why not?” She looked at Joe.

"Okay. I hope I don't bore you. I just do what hundreds of other guys do.” His voice was quiet. The pale brown eyes watched Connie's face.

The couple's intense scrutiny was unnerving. Could they sense her misgiving?

Backing through the swinging door, an attractive woman with the smooth unblemished skin of twenty-something looked around the room. “Good, you're all here. I was going to call you. I'm Val. Please feel free to ask if you have any special needs.” She carried a steaming platter of thick ham slices. As she set it down, she quickly checked to see that the table was ready.

The hungry guests voiced their appreciation as they started to fill their plates.

Connie looked around the table. Didn't they hear the call to supper? If it wasn't Val, then who? Betty? But wouldn't Val know if Betty made the announcement? Maybe I am going out of my mind?

"Tracey and I had lunch at a place off of Caroline Street on the other side of the railroad tracks. A small pub built around the turn of the eighteenth century. It's rumored to have been a safe haven for Union soldiers during the Civil War,” Joe said as he passed a bowl of sweet potatoes to Tracey. “Lots of atmosphere."

"I'd like to go there.” Trying to concentrate, Connie added the pub to her list of tourist attractions for her article. “What's it called?"

"The Blackstone Inn and Pub. How about tomorrow? If we get there early we should be able to get a table without waiting."

"Sounds great, but do the two of you mind going back so soon?” A fuzzy image of an old weathered building on a narrow street formed in Connie's mind. She ignored it. Her mother used to say she had the imagination of three children. It was working overtime today.

"No problem, we love the place.” Joe looked across the table. “What do you say, Brian, make it a foursome?"

"Sure, I'd like that,” Brian replied, “it should be a good addition to my book."

"How would it be if we met somewhere ... the railroad station is easy to find, but it's not in the best of neighborhoods. The Visitor's Center is close by. We can meet there around eleven,” Tracey said.

"What do you have planned for tomorrow? Other than lunch, that is,” Brian asked as he handed Connie the basket of homemade bread. Tracey and Joe began lining up their activities for the morning.

"I'm not sure yet. I have a pile of stuff to go through tonight. Then I can see where to go from there. How about you? You mentioned a book?” He was a personable man, but so was Phillip.

"I'm on a working holiday. I teach American History at a private school near Hazelton in Pennsylvania, Augusta Prep. But I'm on sabbatical this year. I'm working on a photographic record of historic buildings in Virginia. Like I said, this pub sounds like the kind of place I'm looking for."

"Really, what type of places are you recording?” Connie tried to listen as her companion began telling her about the many places he had already visited. She had to force her encounters with the Twilight Zone into a private corner of her mind.

This too will pass. She tried to enjoy the company and the conversation.

Carrying a white ceramic pot filled with hot coffee, and a cup, Connie climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor room.

"Are you sure I can't help you? How are you going to open your door?” Brian followed her.

"Well maybe you can do that for me.” She remembered the luggage. “By the way, thank you for bringing my things up this afternoon. It was a big help.” They stopped outside her room.

"No problem. I was happy to do it.” He didn't show any sign of leaving. “May I ask you something personal?"

Connie shrugged. “How personal?"

"I'll tell you what, I'll ask, and you don't have to answer. In fact you can tell me to bug off if you want."

Connie suspected what was coming. “Okay, fire."

"I noticed the mark on your finger. Are you attached and trying to get a no lines tan? Or are you...?"

"Unattached,” Connie said. “I've corrected a bad decision.” She thought of Phillip and the blind affection she'd had for him. Right up to that day—I'll think long and hard before I trust another man as completely as I trusted Phillip.

"How about you, any strings?” She waited for his answer, discovering against her better judgment, she found pleasure in his smile and the sound of his voice.

"No ties or commitments beyond my job and hobby.” Brian didn't offer further explanation. Silence filled the air while they avoided looking at each other.

Brian ended the awkward moment. “I know you're working on a deadline, but you still have to eat and I have a car. My schedule is flexible, so what do you say? We could team up. It might make the work easier.” His voice was light, promising only friendship.

Connie was unreasonably happy to accept the offer. “Okay if you're sure it's not an inconvenience.” Had Phillip ever made her feel this good? “We can plan one day at a time. If you're serious about the driving part, there are a few places I was planning to catch a bus or cab to visit. The transportation would come in handy."

"No problem. I'm sure we can work it out.” He reached past her to turn the glass doorknob, pushing the door open. “Good night. Try not to stay up too late, and if you need company, just knock on the bathroom door. I'm on the other side."

Connie stepped inside the room, still facing Brian. “Good night. I'll see you for lunch tomorrow.” She hesitated, deciding she had said enough she smiled as she stepped back, letting him pull the door closed.

Seconds later, she heard his door close.

Having him near makes me feel safe. That's really stupid. I don't have anything to be afraid of. And for that matter, what do I know about him? He could be an axe killer, a serial rapist, a cat burglar, or a sadistic sex maniac. The thoughts milled around in her head.

With a smile at her own silliness, Connie set the pot on top of the chest after filling her cup. She went to the pile of papers on the sofa. The material titillated her.

From experience she knew she had a difficult task ahead. Reading the faded and blurred scribbles on old documents was major eye stain. No, she thought with a sigh, it wasn't going to be easy at all.

The evening hours slipped by as Connie examined the official documents, making notes on a yellow legal pad. One proclaimed Maxmillian Wolfgang Brentwell to be educated in the practice of medical procedures, including surgery and dentistry. Another gilt-edged paper declared the same Dr. Brentwell was qualified to serve as an instructor in these fields. A letter of acceptance to a position at a school of medicine in Boston indicated that he had held this latter position for a period of time.

A small package of yellowed papers, proved to be correspondence with a fellow physician who lived and practiced in Richmond. In answer to Maxmillian's letters his friend wrote of his envy that his friend had found true love in a beautiful woman. Peter Sanson, an old college pal, encouraged Max to move south and to “bring your lovely Prudence. Virginia is in need of men with your skills in medicine, as well as gentlemen of good common sense,” he wrote. “There is no place better to make a home. The South, while having an abundance of plantation owners and businessmen, shop owners and politicians, is always ready to welcome men of medicine."

Max had been convinced, feeling it was time for him to start a full time practice and leave his teaching job. He took a trip to Richmond, but didn't like the city. It was too crowded and didn't need another doctor, or so he wrote to Prudence. Instead he chose the smaller, but busy metropolis of Fredericksburg where he could make a difference. He found the historical colonial town and its citizens to be “charming, relatively quiet, and potentially prosperous."

Through copies of letters to a builder and the replies, Connie was able to follow the construction of the building where she sat. When word came that it was completed, Max took his wife, their two year old son and six month old daughter and moved to the new home in the Spring of eighteen forty-four.

There were a few more letters from Dr. Sanson, but the two had nearly stopped writing by eighteen fifty-two, or perhaps Max hadn't saved the letters, or they were lost.

A brown accordion folder with a tie down flap, held a certificate of marriage made out for Max and Prudence, filed at Boston courthouse in eighteen forty-four, birth certificates for the children, Max Jr. was born on the twelfth of March eighteen forty-two, Victoria's was badly faded all Connie could make out was November forty-three, the deed to the property where the house now stood, tax records for the real estate based on the property's frontage (that explained the narrow but tall front and deep structure of the house), and the contract for the construction of a stable and carriage house behind the house, now used as living quarters for the Fraisers. Other everyday papers filled the fat envelope.

A separate package held orders for large quantities of drugs and tonics checked off as received by the doctor from the drug suppliers in Philadelphia, Boston and Baltimore. There was a gap in late eighteen sixty-one to early in eighteen sixty-six. What had the doctor done for drugs during the Civil War? From history, Connie knew that what was available went to the army, and most of those had to be smuggled past the sea blockade, leaving the private citizens to fend for themselves or rely on the kindness of visiting hospital aid workers. Connie made a note on her pad. The problem would be a good starting point for another article.

The strain of reading the faded ink was giving Connie a headache.

She made an executive decision to read something easier to make out. Later, when she felt fresher, she'd finish the faded documents. She put the pile of brittle papers aside, and reached for the hard bound book.

The only marking on its cover was the word “Victoria” in gold against the bright red background.

Realizing that the evening had darkened, she switched on the converted oil lamp next to the wing back armchair. After settling in with a fresh cup of tepid coffee, she opened the book.

A brief forward explained that the book was a transcript of a diary written by Victoria Elizabeth Brentwell and found when the house was being sold in nineteen oh-six after her mother, Prudence Brentwell's death. The editors explained that passages were skipped in the transcription when the words were unclear, and notes added to clarify others.

The journal had been a birthday gift from Victoria's parents. The first entry was dated “5 November 1855"

Hmm, my birthday too. Connie smiled briefly. Something fluttered somewhere in the depths of Connie's mind. Was that the reason she felt so strongly about Victoria? That was just plain dumb, a lot of people share birthdays and don't feel like they've known each other forever.

Lacy made Mama and me a tea party. We had those special sugar cakes Lacy makes, with hot lemon tea.

This journal is a gift from Mama and Papa. Mama gave me some pink hair ribbons, Papa, a bottle of ink, a pen holder and some pens and Maxi, a bag of rock candy. But only Mama and me were at the tea party.

Maxi is helping Mr. Griner, he's in poor health, and Papa said it is good to help others in need. And of course Papa's own duties as a doctor took him away.

From the young woman's description of the house's layout, Connie knew that Victoria's room was in the rear of her parent's bedroom, the one on the right side of the stairwell, the Handleys were staying in the room on the left, the room that had been Max Jr.'s. The two in the front had been Prudence and Max's bedroom and private setting room, replacing the one on the first floor being used as a waiting room. Max slept on the sofa in the private sitting room when he came in late and didn't want to disturb Prudence. Sometimes it was a temporary bedroom for an ailing child. Only the fireplace walls and shared chimneys separated the rooms in the back of the house from those in the front. How strange, she was sure this had been Victoria's room, but according to the diary, Connie was in the setting room and Brian in the master bedroom.

But that couldn't be right. She could feel Victoria's presence in this room. Maybe there would be something to explain the discrepancy later.

Connie watched the life of a happy twelve year old as the young girl struggled to learn something about the world outside her own community.

Someday I will see the places pictured in magazines. London, Paris, are there such places? Yesterday, Maxi read to me from a book Ms. Farmer (our teacher) gave him. It is the story of a man's search for a great white whale. It is a wonderful tale called “Moby Dick” written by Herman Melville. I would like to see the ocean, not from the shore but from a boat. To be able to look from all sides of a ship and see only the rolling seas. What a splendid sight that must be.

Connie met the doctor through his devoted daughter's eyes, stern and strict; she could see how he doted on his little girl.

Papa is so tall I think his hair will brush the top of the door opening when he passes through. His mutton chops and mustache are thick and handsome; the trail of hair joining them is narrower but just as full. Mama says I have his eyes and stubbornness, but I favor her looks in the rest of me. While Maxi favors Papa in build and features, he has Mama's temperament, slow to anger and ready to forgive.

Maxi was cutting wood yesterday when his friends came by to go fishing. He left the ax where it fell. His catch of four large bass did not impress Papa or bring forgiveness. Maxi will be cutting and stacking many a tree, and sharpening many blades before he is permitted to go with his friends again. Why are boys so foolish?

I have almost finished the embroidered monogram on the set of handkerchiefs I am preparing for Papa's birthday. I hope he will be able to have dinner with us.

Of her own future, I will tend the sick as Papa does. She vowed in the thin book's pages.

Victoria described her mother as...

full of joy and energy and beautiful with long dark hair worn twisted into a great knot in the back of her head. Her dark eyes are alive when she is happy and dull in her sadness. She loves to read the stories of Hawthorne and Dickens, and the poems of Byron, Keats, Tennyson, and Longfellow. She is skilled in needlework, Lacy tells me Mama's tablecloths and dresses are admired by many, and she loves to cook. My own needlework is poor when next to hers, but she assures me that I will improve and I will make some man a good wife. I wonder.

Victoria's brother Maxi was the center of her childhood. He was a good big brother.

Today I asked Maxi why he walked with me to school. I know it is because Papa has told him it is his duty as my older brother. But he proclaimed that as my brother he is also my protector. He will guard me from wild animals and bullies.

He taught me to ride and care for a horse when I was young, and when and where to catch the biggest fish. He listens when I am sad and cheers me. He tells me his secrets and I tell him mine.

18 January 1856

Today it has been two years since Lacy and Sam started buying their freedom and that of their children. They were both working off this debt by an arrangement between Papa and Mr. Bradford made many years ago. Lacy has always helped Mama keep the house in order. She does the wash and cooking and mending. Sam helps Papa with the animals and carriage, supplying wood for the house and keeping the tools well honed. When they were slaves, Lacy and Sam went back to the plantation in the evenings, their children worked in the garden and fields there to insure that Sam and Lacy would return and not run away. It took many years, but the Bradfords were fair and allowed the work-for-pay arrangement. Sam and his family have been living in the carriage house while Sam builds a new home in a shanty town near the river with other free-men. Tomorrow they will move.

I overheard Papa and Mr. Bradford in the parlor the day Sam was declared to be free, the children and Lacy were already living in the carriage house, every penny they earned spent to bring their family together. “Max, I didn't know you were against slavery."

Papa took a long time to answer. “I'm not, Tom, but I'm not against a man wanting his freedom either, as long as he's willing to work for it. I think Sam and Lacy did just that and they deserve to be free."

"Could be, but I hope no more of my niggers get the same notion. I'm losing some good money makers by letting them go. Can't say I haven't had second thoughts, but ... well, a deals a deal and my deal is with you, and I'm bound by it."

So tomorrow Sam and Lacy will be truly free.

The Bradfords again. Connie remembered the missing plantation house north of Fredericksburg. Draining her coffee cup, she returned to the book.

Victoria didn't write every day and she didn't always relay events. As she grew closer to womanhood, the writing changed. The things that were important to her and the way she wrote about them. She put her feelings, fears and hopes in the book.

Gaps in the dialog where filled with notes from the editor explained their inability to discern the faded writing or although the words were there, for not being able to comprehend their meaning.

Connie tried to picture the library/office as a doctor's office, and the narrow sitting room in the front as the waiting room. It wasn't hard. She saw them as they must have been; she even imagined she could hear the patients talking in hushed voices as they waited.

Connie could see Victoria offering water or tea to those waiting to see her father. Dark hair flowing down the slim girl's back, held off her shoulders by a piece of pink ribbon. Pink was her favorite color. Her oval face was mature for a twelve year old, the dark blue eyes filled with caring, the full lips smiling and giving comfort.

Something changed in the fall of eighteen fifty-six. It was apparent by Victoria's writing that Prudence had something on her mind.

Mama has forgotten. She promised to help me make a new dress for church. We haven't selected the yard goods, buttons or lace. When I reminded her today, she was angry. Mama never snapped at me before. What have I done wrong? Maxi said not to worry; Mama is just out of sorts, whatever that means. But I know he is worried too.

A note from the editor told that the next day's entry had been smudged and only part was legible, the sentences broken and cryptic.

...early, she didn't buy much and not ... of cloth or spool of thread. I asked if she ... cried great sobs. I felt bad to have upset her ... not well? Mama is never ill. I made her tea ... better I think. She said she was sorry for making a scene. Papa was disturbed when I told him Mama was not feeling well.

That night Prudence and the Doctor had an argument. Victoria wrote:

I can hear Papa. He is angry. I think Mama is crying. A door slammed. It is quiet again except for Mama.

Two days later:

Mama's still feeling poorly. I took tea to her this afternoon. She was propped up in bed, sewing. I saw the sofa in the sitting room piled with quilts and a goose down pillow.

Papa's sleeping there, just ‘till I feel better, she told me. Her eyes were red and puffy, she had been crying.

Later that week:

I went to market with Lacy, Papa sent me to help with the shopping and carry the money to pay the accounts. Mama's not feeling better. She did smile today, but it was a sad smile. She was looking at the tiny dress she made. It's all white, trimmed with lace and a row of tiny buttons down the front. I don't know who's to wear it. It's so small.

Weeks passed without an entry, then:

Mama's with child! That is her terrible, wonderful ailment. I hope it's a girl.

Papa told me this morning that I am to sleep in the sitting room starting tonight, to be near in case Mama needs anything. Papa will sleep in my room or in his office. He does not want to wake Mama at the late hours he comes home.

When I returned from market, my furnishings and trunk had been moved. The sofa is now in my old room.

Connie's brow furrowed, Victoria doesn't see the disharmony in her family, or if she does, she's ignoring it. She mentions only that her father is out more that usual and she doesn't see him.

After that Victoria wrote about her mother's growth.

Her middle is growing at an alarming rate. I wonder that her skin is able to stretch so far. I have seen many ladies with child, but mama...?

And how she took over more of the household chores helping Lacy.

The chores are never done. Lacy and I bake bread all day every Saturday, we start the wash every other Monday, this chore takes several days to complete, with the scrubbing, boiling, soaking the whites in bluing, and the rinses, and finally hanging them to dry. The next few days are spent pressing out the wrinkles. While I watch the fires, I mend or prepare vegetables for the day's meals. Lacy will teach me to make lye soap this year in the fall, happily this task is done only twice a year, at butchering times as the fat from the animals is needed for the process. Early each morning I do the errands Papa has left for me. Picking up packages of medicines, sending off the orders for more, trips to the seamstress to collect material for bandages. In the evenings I take my sewing and sit with Mama as she teaches me how to sew a fine seam, or embroider a butterfly. Or I read while Mama sews. Sometimes I can see that she is crying, or that her attention has drifted and she doesn't hear the words I am saying, she goes far away.

Mama seems so unhappy, even her smiles have tears.

...then that fateful day February twenty-third, eighteen fifty-seven.

I have lived only thirteen years and three months but today I have know the greatest of joys and the deepest of sorrows.

The pages of the original diary were probably tear-stained. Connie could almost hear the sobs between words.

Early this morning, before the sun came up, I heard a noise. It came from Mama's room. I tapped on her door and heard her groan.

Mama. I called quietly, so I wouldn't wake her if she was dreaming.

Victoria help me. Your Papa is out tending to Mr. Griner, she said.

Help with what, Mama? Are you ill?

No, my heart, I am having the baby.

I was afraid. How could I help? I had watched the birthing of many cats and dogs, once a colt, but never had I been present when a child was born.

"Get the pile of feed bags off the top shelf of the wardrobe and fill the basin with water.” She told me to hurry the baby was coming. I did as she asked.

It was wonderful and terrible. The baby came out of Mama! Like with the mare, but not the same. The colt stood and walked on wobbly legs right after it was born. This infant would need a lot of care before it could walk or take care of itself. It was beautiful. I felt it moving as it drew in breath and made a small crying sound. It was a girl. I couldn't take my eyes from her small wrinkled, red body and tiny hands and feet.

"Give it to me, and go make some hot water in the kitchen. There is cleaning to be done.” Mama reached for the baby, she had a blanket ready to wrap her in.

I did as she said. It took a long time for the kettle to boil. I had to walk slowly back to the bedroom to keep from spilling it. It was hard to wait. I wanted to hold my sister.

Mama was shaking with sobs when I opened the door. I was afraid.

"What's happened, Mama? What's wrong?” Something had happened, something bad. Maybe it was because of the way she was holding the small bundle, so many babies die, I knew.

I stayed with her until Papa came home. She wouldn't let me take the baby, so I sat with her trying to calm her with the songs I had learned at her knee and reading from the Bible she kept next to her bed, all the time blinking back the tears that flowed from my own eyes.

I went to my room when Papa came in. We didn't have to say anything, he knew. I heard him send Maxi to fetch Lacy.

Later I asked Papa what had happen. Why didn't my little sister live? He said it wasn't to be. I heard him tell Lacy that Evangeline Amanda, that's what Mama had named the baby for her burial, had been still-born. I don't know why I didn't tell him that Evangeline had been crying, but somehow I think it's best that I didn't.

Connie drew in a deep breath, choking back a sob of her own. Prudence didn't think her husband would accept the baby, he knew he wasn't the father. She had killed it when it was born. The only garment she made for her daughter had been her burial gown.

Prudence had found someone else, someone with the time to show her kindness.

Being a doctor's wife was lonely even in the nineteenth century. It could have been one of the merchants, or a tradesman. Connie could only guess about the relationship. When had it turned to more than friendship? At least for Prudence. There was no sign that her lover had as much as sent a note during her illness, or questioned her absence.

Connie felt rage at the man who had led the woman on. She felt rage at the woman who couldn't face raising the child that she nurtured for nine months. She felt rage at the doctor for not giving his wife a reason to believe he would accept the child. With a little support, Prudence wouldn't have become a murderer.

She slowly closed the book. Why did some men have to be so self centered. Prudence's lover and her husband ... and Phillip.

As she looked at the gold letters, the room blurred, a cool mist surrounded her and the armchair. The book faded. Her lap was empty. The fog remained, growing thinner. Connie looked around the room, it was different.

I must have fallen asleep.

A needlework hoop sat in front of the corner window, a straight-backed chair next to it. The lamp flame flicked, giving off an eerie yellow glow. A wood chest sat against the wall where the sofa should be. The pictures were gone, the wardrobe, chest of drawers and bed were the same. The chair Connie sat in looked almost the same, but it wasn't. The cloth pattern was different, darker in color, the seat harder. A fire blazed in the open hearth, warming the room. The smell of smoke mixed with lilac and burning lamp oil.

Connie stood and went to the window. Something about the houses across the street didn't look the same. Of course the snow was softening the sharp edges and covering the dormant trees, but there was something else. The muffled clip-clop of horses hooves caught her attention, she watched in a daze as the team pulled its loaded wagon along the cobblestone street.

Snow? Horses? Oh, I'm dreaming. She put her trembling hand on the icy windowpane, but everything's so real. If this could be bottled it would make a great Christmas card. I could be in another time. Her fingers were cold against her lips.

She heard the door open, its hinges giving a telltale screech. Why didn't I hear a knock? It didn't seem likely that Betty would just enter her room. As Connie turned she heard a sharp intake of breath.

Victoria stared in amazement, her eyes wide and her mouth open in surprise. She wore a white nightgown that covered her from chin to toe and cloth slippers on her feet, her long hair held only by a pink ribbon, rained over her shoulders. The hand holding the candle shook, the other flew to her mouth. Her dark eyes reflected the flickering light.

"Victoria.” Connie took a step forward as she reached for the distant figure. The room spun, she felt herself falling. Realizing as the world grayed that Victoria had seen her, too. What kind of dream is this?

Waking to the smells of the floor polish and the rug she was laying on, Connie pulled herself up and tried to sort out her thoughts. Had she fainted? Why?

Memory of the “dream” came back slowly bringing with it a flood of sensations, astonishment, wonder, and fear.

What happened? Did I fall asleep? On the floor? I don't think so. She put a trembling hand to her head. On shaky legs, she made her way to the window. Looking out, Connie tried to get a grip on reality. Yes, it was still spring. The trees were displaying new greenery. Cars traveled the streets nearby. A few tourists clad in shorts and sun hats or baseball caps, and carrying canvas bags, bustled to get back to their cars and lodging for the night.

The house across the street taunted her. Its windows looked like eyes, and the door, a mouth forming a permanent rectangle, saying “Oh". What had been different about this scene in her dream?

Studying both sides of the white frame house, Connie's eyes widened. That's it. There were three buildings in the dream, not two. The one on the right corner was missing. Without having any idea how, Connie knew the house had been destroyed during the looting that preceded the Battle of Fredericksburg in eighteen sixty-two.

It had been a long and trying day. Things would look better in the morning, Connie tried to convince herself as she changed for bed. With little effort she could feel the warmth of the fire on her face and the chill of the icy window pane under her fingers. As she pulled the light blanket up around her neck, Connie remembered Victoria staring at her with fear. But that couldn't be right; Victoria didn't have anything to fear from her. Never mind, Connie told herself, after all it was just a dream.

Wasn't it?

"...that's the news, on this sunny Saturday morning. For an update, listen in at twelve o'clock, that's at noon. Comes everyday about the same time, folks. Stay tuned for..."

Connie fumbled for the button to quiet the fast talking DJ. Blessed silence filled the room.

Her sleep had been uneasy, haunted by dreams of horses and houses, candles and brightly burning fires, of Victoria stepping out of the portrait to stand smiling, her arms outstretched, welcoming.

Her eyes burned and her body was heavy from lack of rest. Connie was as tired as when she had gone to bed.

What had drawn her to Fredericksburg? To Fraiser's Rest? Was it Victoria?

Yes, she was doing an article on the B&B, but that had come later. The trip had been planned and the bus ticket purchased before the Fraisers agreed to the article. Since her mother's funeral in November, the compulsive need to make this trip to Virginia had taken over every waking and sometimes, sleeping hour.

Had she wanted to escape? Is that why she had to get away? Natural enough, but why Virginia? She had friends and relatives all over Pennsylvania.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed she searched the floor with her feet for her slippers. Covering a yawn with her hand Connie felt the wide band of the antique ring on her little finger. Smiling she held it up where she could see it.

Elizabeth Hart, mother, best friend, confessor, and advisor. Images of her childhood whirled in her head as Connie twisted the ring. Mom, I could use your advice. I miss you. She stood and walked to the bathroom.

The stinging shower spray reminded Connie of her mother's funeral. A steady downpour made the graveside service dismal. The pale sky had been cold and filled with clouds that reflected the sadness of the observance. Less than five weeks before that rainy day, she'd broken her engagement with Phil. His infidelity still brought pain, but nothing like the pain of watching her mother waste away, her body eaten by cancer.

Connie was left alone. She retreated from the world, until one day she realized how much worse her life might be. She could be planning a wedding to a man who didn't know the meaning of love and her mother could be lying in a hospital bed suffering the pain of prolonged illness.

Concentrating on the things she'd grown up with, her family and the stories her mother and grandmother had told her of Mandi and Drew Kosgrove, her great, great, great grandparents, Connie tried to build a new foundation.

When she finished this project, she would take a vacation and dig into Mandi Kosgrove's past.

The frustration left by her great, great, great grandmother was especially bitter because Mandi lived to be ninety-two, dying in the spring of nineteen thirty-five, but steadfastly refused to share her past. According to Mary Ellen, Connie's grandmother, Amanda would only smile when asked where she had been born.

Connie's treasured legacy had been passed down from mother to daughter for generations. Memories of long talks with her mother fed Connie's compulsion to know more about the Civil War and the truth of living in a war zone. Wherever Mandi was from, she had lived during that terrible time.

Brian's smiling face loomed before Connie's closed eyes, interrupting her thoughts and pushing the past out of the way. Over the stinging hot spray of the shower, she remembered his deep voice as he asked what she planned to do today.

I feel like I'm living in two worlds, a hundred-forty years apart, but I'm not sure which is real ... or if either is.

Reluctantly she turned off the comforting stream of water, and wrapped her wet body in the lilac scented bath towel. Brian was gone by now, snapping pictures of old buildings, doing what he came here to do.

What about you, Connie? What did you come here to do? To write a background story on a B&B? To get your life in order? Or to dream about the people who lived here a century and a half ago? You don't know, do you? The shadowy image in the steamed mirror didn't answer.

Dressing quickly and descending the narrow stairs, Connie wasn't surprised to find that she was alone.

After a quick cup of coffee she settled in the parlor to read the few remaining pages of the red-bound journal.

The story of Prudence's surrender to depression reinforced Connie's mood. It had been a sad and gloomy time for Victoria.

13 March 1857

Parson Brickton called today. I asked if he would like to take tea with Mama. As he had come to see to her well being, he said he would. I went to prepare Mama for her visitor, before I reached the top of the stairs she called out, “Paul?” she asked softly again as I opened the door, her eyes bright with expectation.

"No, Mama,” I said.” It's Parson Brickton come to visit."

"I see,” Mama said but she wasn't smiling anymore, her eyes filled with tears.

17 May 1857

I was helping Lacy make bread when we heard the shouts. It was Mama, she was yelling as one possessed. When I went to her room, she was leaning out the window, shouting at a passing wedding carriage. Do you know them, Mama? I asked her. “He's gone now.” was all she would say before allowing me to help her to the rocker, where she sat still as stone, her hair had fallen free of its pins. She was so forlorn, I wondered what distressed her so, but not wishing to renew her anguish, I did not ask. After combing her hair, I read aloud from books she loved until she fell asleep.

I watch as she rests. Mama's illness disturbs me. Her body is strong, yet she does not find the will to go to the dinning room for meals or to do the marketing. She does not go beyond the doors of her room. God help me, I sometimes get angry at her. I want to shout that the end of Evangeline's life was not the end of hers. And who is this Paul that he can renew her loss by not coming to see her?

May seventeen, eighteen fifty-seven was the last entry. Victoria was thirteen and destined to a life of spinsterhood caring for her mother. Angry that Prudence could ruin her daughter's life so selfishly Connie almost wished she had never opened the book in the first place.

Standing, she stretching her long limbs. A quick glance at her watch helped push Victoria back into the nineteenth century, but not out of her mind.

Returning to her room, Connie prepared to meet Brian and the Handleys for lunch. She packed her canvas bag, while mentally reviewing her itinerary. After lunch, she would go the Chapel of Mercy. Some of the old records may still exist to confirm the journal and possibly answer her questions. If it wasn't too late, she would take a stroll through the old cemetery surrounding the church.

She arrived before the others. Was this the right corner? Checking her note Connie felt relieved to see that, yes, it was. The red brick building with a sign that proclaimed it to be the Visitors Center crowded the sidewalk. Tourists were gathering on the corner across Charlotte Street under a sign announcing “Trolley Tours” where a sightseeing bus waited. Across Princess Ann, a steady line of patrons were quickly filling the small tables outside a small cafe. What she wouldn't do for a cup of coffee. Better still, what she wouldn't give to see Brian in the milling crowd, a friendly face.

Why did she feel so ... lost?

Connie felt conspicuous standing alone on the corner of the busy street. People laughed and talked as they enjoyed the smells of food coming from the many nearby restaurants. The lonely sound of a train whistle warned of an approaching train. She was an observer, watching from inside an invisible box, distant, yet...

The fog surrounded her. Gripping her bag close, Connie opened her mouth to protest as the world spun. The tourists vanished. The surroundings changed, appearing as they had been over a hundred years ago. Connie watched in stunned silence as the street peddlers moved wares in handcarts down the dirt road, with their sing-song calls, “Fresh Berrrrieeesss, get your fresh berries,” “Milk, butter, eggs, frrressssh Milk, butter, eggs."

What's going on? How can this be? Am I having another dream? But I'm wide awake. Is this virtual reality? Is someone playing a trick on me? Connie looked up and down the dusty street.

Behind her, children burst out of the candy store, stopping at the corner to compare surgery delights. Across the street, the general store clerk, a tall muscular young man with a bushy mustache and stained apron helped Victoria pick out a straw broom. Nodding, Victoria accepted one of them and handed it to the black woman waiting quietly behind her.

It's not a dream ... but how? I'm in their world. In Victoria's world. I don't know how or why, but I'm here. Connie felt the dance of a thousand butterflies in her stomach as she watched Victoria go inside the store, while Lacy waited at the door. A group of boys cleared the street were they'd been playing a spirited game of stick ball to make way for a wagon loaded with the sullen black faces of slaves. The sign nailed to its side, told of a slave auction to be held March thirtieth. Connie gasped as the horror of buying and selling human life became a reality.

"Wait. I want to talk to you.” Hearing the hollow voice, Connie tore her eyes from the wagon of misery to see Victoria leaving the store, her hand raised in greeting.

The younger woman's eyes were locked on Connie. Lifting her long skirt, Victoria started to cross the busy thoroughfare.

With sudden awareness, Connie knew Victoria was the reason she was here. Here in Fredericksburg, but why? She had to ask her, she thought as she moved to the edge of the wood plank walkway.

Feeling herself sway, Connie watched the world grow dim. Not yet! She fought to remain in the world of the past. I have to talk to her.

Stumbling backward, she fought to stay upright. The warm bark of the tree behind her bit into the light material of her blouse as she leaned against it, closing her eyes, Connie knew she was home.

"Connie."

The sound of her name, called from nearby, filled her with relief. She loosened her death grip on the canvas bag and tried to steady her shaking hands. Never questioning that it might not continue Connie hoped the time travel would get easier.

She saw Brian first, the top of his dark head above the crowd. The Handleys followed in the path he made through the tourists. Brian waved when he saw Connie look his way. Waiting, Connie wondered what they would think if she told them her secret.

"Sorry we're late. It's my fault. I had the opportunity to shoot a praying mantis eating her lunch. And while her table manners were impeccable for an insect, she was in no hurry. The Handleys waited for me,” Brian said as he neared.

"It's all right. I know how easily I get absorbed in something special.” Like traveling to the nineteenth century, Connie added to herself.

Brian's hand was warm on her elbow as he guided her back across the busy street, where the Handleys waited. Connie was filled with pleasure when, instead of releasing her, he threaded his fingers through hers as they started down a shadowy side street.

Leading the way, Joe put his arm across Tracey's shoulders as the couple moved between the old buildings and were swallowed by the gloom. After several turns Connie saw the black sign, high over the narrow lane. Letters of dull orange/red proclaimed that they had found the “Blackstone Pub and Inn". The three story stone building was dark from years of weathering. Joe and Tracey waited near the low door, its black paint dull and scarred with age.

"I wonder when the door was replaced,” Connie mumbled to herself.

Brian looked at her, puzzled. “What makes you think it's been replaced?"

How did she know? “Just a feeling, like it's not right. It should have big iron hinges. You know what I mean. They're marked where they were pounded with hammers to flatten and shape them."

"Yeah, I know the ones. You see them on old barns. But how can you be so sure that they were used here?"

"I'm a writer, remember? Imagination.” Connie knew she was right. The door had been painted red.

Inside, the elongated room was dimly lit. The stone walls provided a natural insulator, keeping it cool. To their left, a long bar, lined with high wooden stools, ran most of the room's length. A short section at each end remained open. A single bartender drew beer and ale from modern taps. He wore the loose shirt of the seventeen hundreds covered by a dark bib apron. His mutton chop sideburns and armbands added to the flavor of the past.

"Can't you imagine the wooden barrels behind the bar?” Connie admired the pewter plates and mugs that lined shelves, next to old jugs and wooden kegs on display. “I guess it isn't practical to serve from barrels today. It's a shame, it would add to the eighteenth century theme.” The large assortment of liquors and mixers didn't escape her. The drinking demands of the present intruded on the desire to visit the past.

The right side of the long room was filled with tables for dining. Each held a bottle with a candle in it, melted wax bound bottle to table.

"How about a game of darts?” Brian nodded toward the bar, an official game board hung in the front corner. He watched Joe rub his whiskered chin.

"Thought you'd never ask."

"And a small wager,” Brian challenged.

Connie laughed. “Men and their toys. Why don't we get a table and we can order, then you can go play?"

He was looking at her; Connie realized he still held her hand, with a smile she thought how natural it felt. Had they met only yesterday? “You're right. And we are being rude. Would you ladies like to join us at the dart board?"

"No,” both women answered at once.

"You go and play your game, but Connie's right. We should order first.” Tracey nodded toward the far end of the bar. “There's a waitress now."

One of a set of swinging door leading to another room swung open. A young woman wearing a long full dress with a white bib apron, cloth cap, and a tag that said her name was Mary came to seat them.

Mary led the way to one of the larger tables, near a huge fireplace where a coat of arms hung over an oak mantle lined with more pewter plates and mugs. Not many of the other tables were occupied.

Releasing Connie's hand, Brian moved his chair closer to hers.

When the waitress went to get their drinks, Connie leaned toward Tracey. “What do you think? Is she wearing period shoes or Nikes?"

"I'd say it's a toss up.” They giggled together.

Taking their tankards of beer, Joe and Brian went to the bar. Connie watched as the bartender provided darts and the game started with a shot off to see who would go first.

Connie and Tracey shelled and ate peanuts from a basket on the table while they talked.

"How did you find this place? It isn't on a main street. There isn't even a sign to tell you it's here,” Connie asked.

"You didn't seem to have any trouble finding it. I thought we'd lost you two."

Connie responded with a shrug. “You weren't far ahead.” Unable to explain how she found her way through the side streets, she rationalized that other tourists found the pub, a steady flow of people were filling the tables, among them locals in costumes of the Revolution and Civil War eras, who offered themselves to visitors for picture taking and sometimes as guides, but many were obviously tourists.

Tracey excused herself to visit the ladies room, leaving Connie with her thoughts.

Connie idly watched the dart game, smiling at the good-natured competition. The wall behind the dartboard undulated in the gathering mist, fading and changing as it moved. Connie grabbed the table to steady herself as the room swayed. The fog thinned.

The red door made no noticeable sound as it swung open allowing the entrance of a Confederate soldier.

The frail figure walked without challenge through the bustling crowd of patrons, most wearing tattered pieces of the same uniform. Parting the heavy curtain blocking the opening behind the bar, the soldier hesitated, turning.

Tilting his head back, Connie wasn't surprised to see that the soldier was Victoria. She scanned the room quickly from under the brim of her kepi, hesitating briefly when she saw Connie. With a sober nod of recognition, Victoria disappeared through the drapes, unnoticed by those in the bar. How did she know I was here? She wasn't any more surprised to see me than I was to see her.

The room tilted. The mist gathered. Connie was sweep through time. She fell against the table where she sat, her knuckles white from the death grip. Opening her eyes she slowly regained control of her trembling body.

"Are you all right?” Tracey's voice strained to remain calm as she held Connie's arm.

"Yes, I'm okay,” Connie answered weakly. “Just a little dizzy.” She struggled to sort out what she had seen.

"Where were you just now? I went to the rest room. When I came out you weren't here—then you were.” Tracey leaned forward to study Connie's pale face.

"What do you mean? I was here. I didn't go anywhere.” Lifting her head, Connie stared at the wall where the opening had been. Or had it? Was she going out of her mind? What did Tracey mean, “you weren't here—then you were"?

Joe was taking his turn at the dartboard while Brian leaned on the bar looking in their direction. He didn't seem to hear Joe's barbs.

Connie rubbed her arms to rid them of goose bumps. “It was just a dizzy spell. A combination of stress and heat. Please don't say anything.” Connie looked at Tracey, pleading. How could she explain?

"You don't know, do you?” Tracey whispered. “I think you should talk to—"

"What are you talking about? Know what? Please, Tracey. It'll pass.” Connie searched for some sanity. “I'll feel better after I've eaten. I promise. I don't want a lot of fuss."

Reluctantly Tracey dropped the subject, appearing to accept Connie's explanation. “All right, I'll keep quiet for now.” She smiled in response to Connie's relieved nod.

Lifting their mugs, the two women drank. The refreshing mint tea helped clear Connie's churning mind, but did nothing to still her trembling hands. She hoped Tracey would keep her word.

The waitress appeared carrying a tray loaded with bowls of the house special, “Hellzapoppin” stew.

As it has done through the ages, the smell of food coaxed the men away from their game.

"I demand a rematch. My game was just beginning to warm up,” Brian said.

"I'll have to check my date card, challenger. Numero-Uno darts champ has to limit his games to those deserving of the honor,” Joe responded.

"Eat first then talk about a rematch.” Tracey said. “I have a feeling that you'll both be wanting a nap more than another game of darts."

Trying to concentrate on the tender lamb and vegetables, Connie felt Tracey watching her, and more than once she thought she saw Brian looking at her, too. Had he seen something? Or was she being paranoid?

"Where are you going from here?” Brian asked Joe.

Tracey answered for him. “We're going for a long walk by the river, then back to Fraiser's Rest for that nap. We've been up since dawn. How about you, Connie?"

"I'm going to the church the Brentwells attended. It's not far from here."

"Do you mind if I tag along?” Glancing at Connie, Brian picked up the last piece of bread and used it to sop up the gravy in the bottom of his bowl. “You know, for my book. This place is a really interesting attraction. I'll be coming back to get some shots of it some morning when the sun's just coming up. This church of yours could be another."

"I don't mind, but are you sure you want to? I'll be doing research."

"I have to put information about the places in my book, not just pictures and locations. I need background, something of the past that's not found in other books. Sometimes it's only the architecture, or the fact that it has survived hundreds of years, but I like to add little known details. So you see, I'll be doing some research, too.” His hazel eyes held her captive.

"Okay, you're welcome to come.” She paused. “As a matter of fact, I'd like the company.” Connie felt a sense of relief knowing that Brian would accompany her. But why?

"It's settled then. I'll pay the bill and we can go.” The others protested as Brian picked up the check and pulled out his wallet. “This is my treat. After all, I lost the dart game. I owe you something."

As they walked toward the door, Connie's mind whirled with the stories she could tell Brian about the Blackstone's shadowy history. Stories she had no logical way of knowing.

Everyone knew the South was a haven for English sympathizers during the Revolutionary War. But how did she know that the Inn's owner backed the freedom offered by a new government and served its founding fathers by supplying information overheard among his English patrons.

The parade of spies, smugglers, pirates and patriots, the men and women who had graced these cold stone walls with their patronage would make an interesting article. But to what source could she attribute that information? A runaway imagination?

What about the Westerlys? Where could their history be found? Molly and Zack Westerly had operated the Blackstone as a safe house for runaway slaves and Union patriots and spies before and during the Civil War.

Connie stopped at the door, turning to look back at the open room. Is that why she's here? Victoria knew I would be here, but I'm not the reason she came.

Glancing at the wall behind the dartboard, Connie tried to sort out the questions.

The times were too dangerous. A woman dressed as a soldier would be in real trouble if she were caught. Were the Westerlys friends? Did Victoria help them in the covert operation of the Inn? What kind of escapade was she caught up in?

Yes, she knew stories about the Blackstone Pub, but not how all of them end.

Connie and Brian walked along the cobblestone alley that led to the river. Slender two and three story brick buildings lined both sides of the narrow lane, cutting off the afternoon sun. Two blocks ahead they could see an expanse of sunlit trees.

The light at the end of the tunnel. “It's the Chapel of Mercy,” she said aloud. “Dr. Brentwell was a church elder and I believe his family should be buried in the cemetery.” Connie told Brian what she knew from her reading of the Brentwell history.

Without thinking, she turned right at the river and headed south. Soon they were walking between a steep bank that rose above their heads on one side and on the other, the narrow two lane street, and the river. Trees nearly obscured the view of the placid water. The steep banks were covered with weeds and wildflowers.

"This was once a dirt track. To make room for progress, the bank had to be cut away.” Connie was talking to avoid thinking about what happened at the Pub, but Brian agreed that hers was an obvious assumption.

The boughs of trees hung over the top of the embankment. Their great roots growing through the soil struggled to retain their precarious hold.

"I hope they didn't move any of the graves to put in the road,” Connie said.

Brian watched her face. “Are you thinking about the Brentwells?"

"Yes, I hope their graves weren't disturbed.” Connie glanced up at the bank.

The road cut its way close to the stone church at the bottom of the rise ahead. Grave markers filed in neat rows around the Chapel.

Connie stood on the first step leading to the door. She read the placard set in gray granite.

Chapel of Mercy

Church of the Episcopalian Faith Built Seventeen hundred and Eighty-five,

Served the Community as a Hospital during the War of Northern Invasion

Brian said something about taking pictures. Connie couldn't fight the pull of the closed door. She had to go inside.

A wood sign hung on the door with the carved message, “Everyone Welcome". Accepting the invitation, Connie found the heavy door opened easily on well-oiled hinges.

The interior was cool, like that of the pub, but without the benefit of the overhead fans. Particles of dust hovered in the streams of light from the high, narrow windows. Goose bumps rose on Connie's arms as she studied her surroundings. Remembering.

The rubber soles of their shoes made only little scuffing sounds on the worn plank floor. High-walled box pews lined both sides of the small sanctuary. Deep scars and layers of paint covered the hard used seats.

The first camera flash took her by surprise. She watched as Brian positioned himself, focused and shot pictures of the church interior.

"Afternoon, folks.” The shadows near the altar shifted, changing into the figure of a short, plump man holding a broom. He stepped into the light. “I'm Harvey Bender, sexton of this here church since fifty-one. Can I help ya? Maybe ya'd like to look around."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bender. I'm working on an article about the Brentwell family,” Connie explained. “They lived in Fredericksburg in the mid-eighteen hundreds and attended this church. Dr. Brentwell was an elder, I believe. Do you think I ... we could look at the old church records."

"Sure. That's why I'm here.” The old man seemed pleased.

Connie stood beside Brian, aware of his body heat and the faint scent of his aftershave. Strange, how right it felt to be here, in this church, with this man.

Harvey's gnarled fingers scratched at the yellowed stubble on his cheek as he searched his memory. “Brentwell, I know that name. He's one of the good ones. Ya know, a real good churchman. Real popular in town, too."

"I saw a church register inside the door.” Connie thought of the big book on a scarred pedestal, a ballpoint pen chained to the table. “Do you have any of those records from eighteen forty to eighteen sixty-five?” She held out little hope the books had survived the years.

"Yep, the church kept'm. We got'm in the Records Room. It's really a storage room, but it's always been called the Records Room. The oldest books I remember go back to just before the turn of the century, the nineteenth, that is. Some are missing, lost, destroyed, who knows? Anyway, ya can look at what we got. Come on, we'll see what we can find."

Connie's heart quickened at the prospect of touching history. It didn't occur to her to question Harvey's willingness to show a stranger the ancient books without authorization from the church elders. Clutching her bag, she followed him through a small door. Brian brought up the rear.

Shadows filled the short hall, darkening it as the light drifting through two small windows began to fade.

"Careful, light's not real great in here. Afternoon sun's behind us, ya see. This hall's an anteroom for the minister and his helper. A waiting place before starting the service. It's okay in the mornings; the sun comes in here then, but not afternoon.” Harvey filled the silence between speeches by humming softly.

The hall ended at another low door that opened with a series of sharp squeals as metal worked against metal. “Hinges should be oiled,” the old man mumbled to himself.

They entered a small office. A lamp on an otherwise bare desk gave off an eerie yellow glow. “Through here,” he said.

Brian and Connie followed him into another, larger room. The cool, damp air smelled of old leather, mold and years of dust. The windowless room stretched across the back of the church. Four light bulbs, covered by metal shades and hanging from chains at even intervals across the high ceiling, provided light.

Sets of candleholders, small tables, and stacks of straight backed chairs lined the north wall. Shelves, standing eight feet high lined the back wall, objects protected by plastic filled most of them. Connie could make out the shapes of vessels used to hold flowers along with oblong and flat packages that probably contained linen vestments.

At the south end of the room a long battered table waited.

Connie saw rows of old books, big volumes with dates on the spines. The ones on the bottom shelves were bound with cloth covered wood, while higher up the books had leather covers. Many of the books had suffered damage from heat and dampness, the leather cracked and peeling, the cloth discolored, and separating from the warped boards.

"Pull up some chairs and I'll get ya some books down,” Harvey talked while he looked at the laden shelves. Finding a corner for his broom, the sexton wheeled a step stool under one of the shelves.

After putting his camera away, Brian pulled out two of the old wood chairs at the table. He cautiously tried their strength, before nodding his approval.

"Can you feel it?” Connie whispered, then without waiting for a response she continued. “The people, they're all here, the people from the past."

Harvey gently laid the first of the books on the table in front of his guests, reporting the dates noted on each.

Brian helped Connie read the faded writing. They searched for mention of the doctor or his family.

The eighteen forty-seven volumes were nearly illegible, the ink faded to blurred shadows. After the third book she asked Harvey to move to the eighteen fifties, hoping the ink had held up better. It hadn't, but they looked anyway.

"I think I see something.” Brian stood and leaned forward peering intently at the middle of a page. The year was eighteen fifty-two.

"Can I see?” Connie moved closer, squinting at the faded ink. “You're right. It could be ‘Dr. Maxmillian Brentwell'. I can't make out all of it, but I think it's something about being made a church elder.” She lowered herself into her chair. “Great. We've established that the Brentwells did worship here, and the doctor was an elder. I have to check another date. What do you say, Brian? One more and I treat you to an old fashioned ice cream sundae."

"I can't remember ever getting a better offer.” Brian smiled as he closed the book in front of him.

Connie could see Harvey waiting. He probably wanted to get home. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly two-thirty. “Can we see late February, eighteen fifty-seven?"

"Ya got it.” He was spry for his age, pulling the step stool to the next set of shelves and climbing to reach the second row of books from the top. He started scanning the dates with care, repeating each to himself until he located the requested book.

"What's important about that date? Is it something you read in the journal?” Brian moved to Harvey's side taking the heavy book from the old man's short arms.

"Yes, that was the time period when Victoria's sister was born and died.” Connie's thoughts went back to the troubling events she had read the evening before. “I want to confirm the entry."

"Here you are.” The book raised a small cloud of dust as Brian laid it on the table.

Carefully turning the stiff pages, they searched for the right date.

"I think I found it.” A tremor in her voice revealed Connie's sadness as she studied the pale letters.

The date was February twenty-fifth, eighteen fifty-seven. The top of the first letter was clear. It was an “E". Some of the other letters were evident. The first name was Evangeline. The second name and last were faded beyond recognition except for the last few letters, “twell". A paling ink smudge marked the end of the entry.

As she read, Connie's nose almost touched the yellowing page in her effort to decipher the hundred and fifty year old entry.

The air grew thick with mist. Pushing herself upright, Connie leaned against the table, trying to stop the change. “Not now,” she whispered. The world around her disappeared. She could hear Brian calling her name, but she couldn't respond.

The past closed in. Helpless as a baby, she fell through time. The caretaker and Brian were left behind. She was alone on this journey. Where was she going? Why?

The foggy shroud thinned. She looked around the dim room. The shelves were gone. Leather trunks lined the walls, stacked three high. A collection of candleholders and spent candles stuck out of a large wood barrel. Connie was crouched over the area where the table had been. Rodent droppings and cobwebs were evident. The air was thick with dust. The old books were stacked on top of another set of trunks. There were far fewer of them.

Straightening, she glided across the room, at first hearing nothing but the sound of her own erratic breathing. Then she heard the voices. They carried down the hall. She moved toward them.

A man's voice, giving gentle and reassuring council. “She is resting in the arms of our Lord. Don't be concerned for your sister, my dear.” Another voice, too quiet for Connie to make out the words responded then the man again. “Go home, and rest. Take care of your poor mother. You will find peace in the work."

With a gasp of surprise, Connie whispered, “Someone's talking to Victoria."

She hurried forward taking steps that carried her effortlessly over the plank floor.

The outer door in the vestibule was closing. As she approached from the empty sanctuary, Connie caught a glimpse of a dark green cloak against a heavy snowfall. The hand on the latch belonged to a thin man in the somber black garb of the clergy.

Connie watched as the pastor bowed his head. He remained in place for a moment before turning to walk down the narrow center aisle to the altar. He stopped when he reached Connie. His eyes narrowed as he put his hands on his arms rubbing them as if to ward off an unexpected chill. With a small shake of his head, the minister turned and continued his walk.

This is no dream. I'm here, in the vestibule of the Chapel of Mercy in February eighteen fifty-seven. It's like this afternoon in the market. So real. Not like the dream of last night, or the daydream in the Pub. Not this time.

The crackling of the fire in the iron stove and whisper of the wind trying to find a way through the cracks around the door told tales of winter, not the budding spring she had left in the future.

I'm here, but for how long? I could be pulled back without warning—or stuck here forever. She stepped into the vestibule. How? Why? So many questions, so few answers.

Looking around the small annex, Connie walked to the pedestal table that held an open record book. Today was the day of the funeral. She had to see the entry.

Her senses were alert to every sight and sound, every snap made by the fire, every moan of the settling building. The sound of icy snow hitting the stained glass windows, the flickering wick of the oil lamp in the vestibule bouncing shadows on the walls, the smell of new leather mixed with the polished wood and burning oil, they are all real. Connie felt a chill, but it wasn't the winter winds that made her shiver.

The leather-bound book loomed before her, its presence larger than life. The new pages lay open on the waist-high stand, not yellowed and brittle, but crisp paper. An old-fashioned pen lay next to a small jar of black liquid its nub still glistened with wet ink.

Connie drew near. She had to read the entry on the open page. A thrill ran through her body, whether it was from excitement or fear, she couldn't tell.

The words jumped off the page. Every letter as clear as the day they were written—This is the day they were written, she reminded herself as she read the script.

Evangeline Amanda Brentwell, stillborn 23 February 1857, put to rest 25 February 1857. Father, Maxmillian Brentwell, Mother, Prudence Chessman Brentwell.

The wet ink sparkled in the unsteady light. With a trembling hand Connie touched the page. As her fingers brushed its edge, she left a smudge.

She watched her fingerprint dry. The air thickened, swirling around her. Connie didn't resist, as the mist engulfed her, she held the small table for support.

Stepping from the pub onto the historical street, Brian was glad Connie didn't object to his joining her trek to the Chapel.

Something had happened at the Blackstone. But what? Had he imagined that Connie appeared out of thin air? It had to be a trick of the light, or his mind.

At least I know this is real. What am I thinking? He looked at his companion, of course this was real. There was an explanation for what happened back there, if it happened, and for Connie's strange moods.

By the time the little church was visible at the bottom of the cemetery, Brian admitted to himself that he'd like to pursue a relationship with Connie. In spite of the strange way she acted in the dining room yesterday. And earlier when he took her hand to cross the street, she was trembling and pale. What was that about? Was she afraid of something? Of someone? Surely she wasn't afraid of him. If she were, why would she let him come with her?

With a twinge he thought of the uncanny way Connie found her way around the back streets of a city she claimed to have never visited before.

With a smile Brian shook off the fanciful thoughts. There's an explanation for all of this. Connie was in touch with the Fraisers before coming on this trip. She could've learned many of these facts from them or by doing her own research. He was being ridiculous; of course she'd researched the area.

As they approached their goal, Brian put his thoughts aside and began planning the church's place in his book.

"This is great,” he said. “Just what I'm looking for. It's a simple structure, and well preserved. What does that sign say? Seventeen eighty-five? It sure doesn't look like it stood through two centuries of weather and a war too. But the sun's not right; I'll have to come back some morning for outside pictures."

Connie smiled without comment as she neared the door.

They passed into the cool interior. Brian was glad to see that it was as well preserved as the exterior.

Connie stopped at the portal that gave way to the sanctuary. Brian stood beside her. “I can shoot some interior shots now.” Brian took his camera from the bag he carried. After making adjustments and turning on the flash, he looked through the viewer, focused and started clicking shoots, moving to get a variety of angles.

His work was interrupted by a strange little man who appeared from nowhere. Silently, Brian listened to the exchange between Harvey and Connie as his eyes searched the room. Where had the sexton been? There were no apparent doorways or corners he could have stood in.

He should have seen him in the camera viewfinder. The little man was right there next to the altar when Brian lowered his camera. He couldn't have appeared out of thin air. Brian searched for logical answers.

There was something about his voice, it sounded strange, echoing as if he was talking in a vast emptiness. Sometimes you get a bad phone connection that sounds like that, but Harvey was standing right next to him.

Brian felt a strong urge to protect Connie. From what? A little old man with a broom? So the old church made his voice echo, so what? He was harmless and helpful. Brian shrugged and followed Connie through the door to the anteroom.

He found the Records Room depressing. He muffled a sneeze as their movements stirred small clouds of dust. The odors of rodent droppings and mildew threatened to overpower the more pleasant scents of leather and candle wax.

"Can you feel it?” Connie's whisper caught him by surprise. “The people, they're all here, the people from the past."

Is that what he felt? Brian often visited and studied historical buildings. To him they were structures put together by skilled craftsman. Places for people to live and work. Those people were gone. Their work recorded in history books. Many of the buildings survived, but they were just buildings. Yet, there was something, a feeling.

A trickle of sweat traced a line from Brian's forehead to his chin. The room was warm and stuffy, yet he felt a chill crawl across the back of his neck.

Brian watched Harvey climb onto the step stool. Going to the long worktable he realized that he still held his camera. Carefully replacing it in the padded confines of his bag, Brian found chairs for himself and Connie.

When they opened the first book, Brian squinted at the faded ink. Dutifully searching the page for any clues to the Brentwell family, he knew that if the ink in all of the books was this badly deteriorated they would never find anything of use.

Each of the record books looked much like the previous. Only a few scattered numbers and letters remained visible on the yellowed pages.

By the time he stumbled onto the entry in the eighteen fifty-two volume, naming Maxmillian Brentwell as a church elder, Brian had a fair start on a headache and was more than willing to accept the offer of an ice cream treat.

With both of them reading the same volume and having a definite date, the search should be a short one. He knew he had been right when he saw the pale letters that Connie pointed out. Brian was surprised to see her hand tremble.

He watched, relieved that the tedious task was done, as Connie tried to make out the faded entry. Brian leaned back in the chair.

"You've been a big help, Harvey,” Brian said, but the old man had disappeared. Strange, just like he appeared. Before he could begin to puzzle it out, next to him, Connie slumped over the open book, leaning heavily on the table.

"Connie!” Brian called in alarm, Harvey forgotten. His outstretched hand stopped in midair. Brian watched as she faded, leaving only a cloud of mist. “Where are you?” he whispered trying to keep the panic he felt out of his voice. What's happening? First Harvey and now Connie, am I going out of my mind? Am I dreaming?

The room closed in. At the same time the cloud moved. He followed. It swirled and bent, but never thinned or dispelled.

Is she in there? How? What is going on? Brian reached out. The mysterious cloud moved, reforming, bending to avoid his touch.

Connie's hollow whisper came from the mist, muffled and impossible to understand.

"Where are you?” He hoped but wasn't surprised when he didn't receive an answer. He followed the drifting form as he tried to control the conflicting urges to help Connie, or to rid himself of any further involvement.

The cloud came to rest in the small vestibule.

"I don't know what's going on, but I'm here.” Brian's voice quivered with desperation and fear. “I'm here.” he repeated, louder, having made his decision.

He watched intently as the mist moved to the pedestal table. What are you seeing?

The mist changed, growing denser with colors beginning to appear before Brian's eyes. Connie emerged, solidified, becoming a person. Where had she been?

As her knees started to buckle, Brian caught her. His own legs were none too steady.

"Are you all right?” Brian waited anxiously for her response.

"I think so. Did I faint?” As she tried to disengage herself from his arms, Connie quickly gripped the pedestal table. “I'm just dizzy."

"Can you walk to the pews? You should sit down. I'll get you some water.” Brian renewed his hold around her waist.

"I'm okay.” Her hand shook as it rested on his arm. “I think we should just leave. Where are my things?"

"I'll get them. My camera's...” As Brian turned toward the hall door, they both saw the canvas bag with the big orange letters “MY BAG” sitting on the floor at the end of the pew next to the black camera bag.

Brian knew he had left them in the Records Room. Then how did it get here? “You're right. We need to get out into the sunshine.” To himself he added, and back to reality.

Connie went with Brian willingly though dreading the questions he must have. His presence kept her from being alone with the storm in her own mind. The warmth of his arm, holding her as they walked, stilled her trembling and comforted her body, but not her head.

She tried to apply logic to the mysterious episodes that had invaded her life. It didn't work. There was no logical explanation. Was she crazy? Having hallucinations? No! I'm as sane as anyone that ... what? Travels in time? Okay, but why me?

Looking up at Brian's somber face, she wondered what he could be thinking. Was he ready to run as far from her as he could get? Would she blame him? It crossed her mind that she didn't know what he saw. Maybe nothing, maybe he just thought she'd fainted.

When he asked questions, would he believe her answers? When he heard her story, he'd be justified in writing her off as a nut.

With a sigh, Connie knew she would tell him everything. She had no choice, and that'd be the end of that. He'll head for the nearest exit. Turning her attention to the serene water across the road, she tried to postpone the inevitable.

Afraid to hear his questions, they walked in silence.

Conscious of the light fabric under his arm and the warmth that came from the body beneath it, Brian looked at Connie's blonde curls. She's everything I've ever looked for in a woman. She's pretty, intelligent, funny and tall. Well the tall part's optional, Brian smiled, but a nice bonus.

But do I want this package. I feel like I've dropped in on some sci-fi show. Is Connie in danger? From what? Some strange things have happened today. It's time for some answers. Might as well start with the easy stuff. “You seem to know your way around. I thought you said you'd never been here before."

"First trip ever. I've been to Richmond, Williamsburg, Manassas, and Gettysburg among others, but never Fredericksburg.” Connie turned onto a street leading into town.

He was silent long enough that the pause was noticed. “I don't understand. I mean, you knew the way to the Blackstone as well as the Handley's and you found the church without a wrong turn. I don't remember seeing it listed on any of the maps I have as a major site. Did the Fraisers tell you about it?"

"I went by the chapel on the cab ride into town, so that's not a big mystery,” she answered. “And Joe gave us general directions to the Blackstone last night at supper."

"Joe only gave us the general part of town. As for the ride in, I took the main highways. I think a cab would do the same, unless you asked him to detour."

"I did, but ... I don't think you'll believe me. It's too incredible,” she stalled.

"Oh? Try me.” He turned, taking her shoulders in his strong hands and gazing into her eyes. “Listen. We don't really know each other. But I want you to trust me. I guess there's no good reason why you should, but please—if you're in some kind of danger, I want to help."

"But..."

"No buts. To put it mildly, some strange things have been happening. Stop me if I'm wrong. I've seen you leave, for lack of a better word. You fade out, just vanish. A bubble of smoke hangs in the air and moves, and it doesn't dispel until you come back.

"At lunch today, when Joe and I were playing darts, I swear you were gone when I looked over at the table. While I watched, you reappeared out of a thin cloud of smoke. I thought it was a trick of light. When I saw Tracey walking back from the restrooms, I assumed that was where you had been, too. Then why were you so frightened, you held onto the table like someone was trying to take it away, your face was as white as a sheet. I tried to brush it off as over zealous imagination.

"What about the church? You didn't just fall asleep and go for a little walk. I was there. You vanished, literally into a cloud of smoke. And,” he held up his hand to stop her interruption, “you're still trembling. Why wouldn't you be? When I could see you again, you were staring at the book on the little stand in the vestibule, and you saw something, something that wasn't there, not for me to see anyway. It scared you. It terrifies me. I feel powerless, helpless and I don't like that feeling.

"I have only one very large question. What is going on?"

Silence surrounded the couple as they studied each other. Wondering where to begin, Brian's words ringing in her ears, vanished, a cloud of smoke, reappeared, Connie knew she had no choice, she had to trust him. Maybe together, if he didn't bolt, they could find the answers.

"Okay,” she finally said, resuming their walk. “You're right, I'm scared. I'm scared because I don't know what's happening or why. All I can do is tell you what I do know.

"The day I buried my mother, a lawyer came to the house. He gave me a copy of Mother's will, a package, and a wood box. In the package was an envelope holding some pictures, many of them were very old, a packet of yellowed letters tied together with a piece of what was once pink ribbon, that had faded and was almost white. The last item was this ring.” Connie held up her hand to show Brian the heirloom she wore. “I spent the rest of the day reading as much as I could make out of the letters. There wasn't much. The dates go back to the eighteen seventies. I can't make out who they are from or to, but they have some things in them about family, a brother, father, babies, things like that.

"It was the next day that the idea for the B&B series came to me. I couldn't wait to send the letters of inquiry to travel magazines, and even if I hadn't gotten an acceptance, I would have gone on with the research. I know that now. Was there something in the letters that gave me the idea? I don't know. I can't think of anything that stands out. Maybe it's just a way for me to escape the loss of my mother."

Brian's camera bag hung from his shoulder on one side while his other arm encircled Connie's waist. She studied the uneven walk in front of them, her bag dangled from her forearms, crossed over her chest. They walked down streets that had a familiarity that Connie found at the same time frightening and comforting.

Connie described places she'd never seen, holographic flashes of the past that overlaid the present, and strange journeys that carried her to a time she couldn't possibly know, except through books. She told him about Victoria's journal and her first frightening trip to the past. Her startling sojourn to nineteenth century Fredericksburg, the shops in the town, Victoria at the general store, the children coming out of the candy store, and wagon of slaves going to be sold.

She filled in the blanks about the Blackstone. How she watched Victoria go through a wall that had been closed off long ago.

A chill gave her goose bumps as she told him how she was the one who left the ink smudge on the edge of the page in the record book at the chapel. She rubbed her arms, as much to feel something real, as to ward off the icy fingers of fear.

"I don't know what's going to happen next, where, or when, and for that matter, why. I only know it's not over. Somehow, I'm connected to the past and this has to play itself out."

"Why? I mean, why don't you leave? Put an end to the whole thing.” Brian watched for her reaction. The dawning of reason that would bring all of this to finality.

She shook her head before he finished the statement. “I had no choice about coming here. I thought I made the decision, but I didn't. My brilliant idea for a series of articles is just an excuse, a reason to be here. I don't know what brought me and I don't know where all this is going to lead but I'm not free to leave, not just yet. It's hard to explain, but I feel tied to this town.” Connie stopped walking. She faced Brian, reading the doubt in his eyes. “You don't believe me, do you? I know it's incredible and I guess I don't blame you."

She felt like a fool for having trusted a virtual stranger with her problem. Fighting tears of frustration that threatened to embarrass her, Connie turned away.

"Of course, I believe you. I've seen it for myself. Remember? The question is what do we do about it?” Moving to be near her, Brian took her hand and squeezed it gently.

"I'm open for suggestions."

"Good. It's a lot to digest but we can both work on it. You're not alone, Connie. I'll help you."

Brian changed the subject. “Right now the only suggestion I have is that we go get that ice cream sundae, as promised.” His eyes scanned the area. “Which way?"

With a smile of relief, Connie knew she had a confidant. Maybe there was hope. She pointed. “I don't remember any ice cream parlors from the nineteenth century, but I think I saw a modern version on the walk up Princess Anne."

"Brian, are you up for a little sightseeing?” Connie put the last bit of ice cream cone in her mouth, and wiped her fingers on her paper napkin. She and Brian were standing across Princess Anne Street from the Visitor's Center where a new group of tourists where gathering to go on the trolley tour.

"Sure, come on.” Putting his free hand on Connie's elbow they quickly crossed the busy street before the traffic light could change. “I'll get the tickets, you wait here.” Before she could object Brian had put his paper bowl, still containing remnants of ice cream and chocolate syrup, in her hand and disappeared into the red brick building.

Connie glanced at the melting mess and smiled, the spoon wasn't in the dish.

She looked up when the door opened; a man and woman came down the steps with Brian right behind them, holding two orange tickets in his left hand, as he fumbled to put his change in his wallet. The missing plastic spoon was in his mouth, with the bottom up so that the handle went down his chin.

Putting his wallet in his pocket, he took the spoon out of his mouth. “Trade you the tickets for my ice cream."

Connie took the tickets and handed him the bowl. “I hope you don't think I would want to eat this ... this ... slop."

"Slop! It's just getting good.” Brian quickly downed the rest of the ice cream and walked to the trash container, one of the many wood barrels that lined Princess Anne Street. “Let's get on the trolley. It leaves at three-thirty, that's only five minutes."

With a nod, Connie followed Brian across the intersection to the waiting bus.

A teenager stood near the open trolley door. Connie showed him their tickets.

"Thank you, have a good tour,” he said with a smile. “Take this sticker, the tour guide will explain.” He gave them each a large, round, florescent orange sticker backed with wax paper.

The front half of the bus was lined with a varnished wood-slate bench seat on each side. Looking into the back, Connie could see that the seats all faced front. The bus was narrow and the seat didn't provide much room, so she elected to sit on a side bench seat giving Brian room to put his camera bag under the seat. The entire bus was lined with windows that reached from the top of the bus to the edge of the seat backs. There was no air conditioning but the windows opened to allow a flow of air.

"Welcome and thank you for taking the Trolley Tours of Fredericksburg. My name's Greg and I'll be your guide."

Greg was a short, stocky man on the up side of fifty. His graying beard and mustache were full and neatly trimmed making up for the receding hairline. Heavy eyebrows sprinkled with gray highlighted his merry eyes. He wore a head microphone that looked like the headset an operator might wear.

"The Trolley Tour stickers Andy gave you as you got on the trolley will get you discounts and special prices at any of the business or eating places that I point out to you on our tour. Just wear them where they can be seen and save money. If you didn't get one, please pick one up when you leave.” Greg turned and settled himself in the driver's seat.

"Our tour starts right here at the corner of Princess Anne and Charlotte Streets. You all purchased your tour tickets at the Fredericksburg Visitor's Center. The red brick building that now houses that center was built in the eighteenth century and was a family candy business until the mid-nineteenth century. It has always held some type of business and is one of our oldest original establishments."

Connie looked at the building, remembering the children running down the wooden steps to the board sidewalk and stopping to examine their packages of sweets. She turned and looked at Brian.

He was watching her reaction to the guide. “Are you sure you want to go on with this? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I feel like I have. I don't know if this is a mistake, but maybe it will open some doors.” Connie smiled, trying to cover her nerviness. “If I faint, make sure no one steps on me."

"Promise.” He held his camera on his lap as he sat sideways, his back against the narrow wall that separated the front and back halves of the bus, his right knee resting on the empty bench between them.

Connie turned sideways, too, putting her back to Brian. She could feel his eyes and hoped she didn't embarrass them both. Taking out her tablet and pen, Connie prepared to make notes.

She dutifully wrote as the guide pointed out the many original buildings in the town, giving a short history on each and giving a “commercial” for many of the small businesses that were now housed in them. Many times the driver slowed or stopped the bus as he talked about the proprietors, ringing the trolley bell to alert them that he was there, and waving to them when they came to the door. Many were attired in period costumes.

Sophia Street was a narrow two lane street that followed the river. Greg, the tour guide, kept up a constant dialog about the tides, flooding, and depth of the river. Connie's pen had stopped, her eyes fixed on the short side street that was barricaded at the top of the rise. It was called Rocky Lane and was only the length of the short block. Large stones and dirt made up the road.

"Rocky Lane is an example of what passed for streets in most of Fredericksburg during the nineteenth century. If you get down to this part of town, be sure to take a stroll on it. Get a feel for the past.” The guide went on to tell his audience about the Shiloh Baptist Church, but Connie watched as the rocky alley was left behind.

"What do you see?” Brian asked softly.

"I see that this road was made of stone too and the one above, what is it, Caroline Street? I can see them as clearly as if they were that way today.” Forcing her eyes from the scene outside the trolley, Connie smiled at Brian. “There were less houses and not as many trees, or maybe it just seems that way because its winter when I see them and there aren't any leaves."

"Do you want to get off?"

"No, I want to see this through."

The fingers of Brian's free hand briefly brushed against her arm as he leaned close. “If you change your mind, just say the word."

Connie nodded and turned, trying to pick up the thread of the guide's talk. She could hear Brian's camera as he took pictures. She was very much aware of his presence.

They struggled to see the gray roof of Chatham through to trees, just catching the smallest glimpse before the trolley moved on. The river was marked by many parking lots for tourists and a modern day bridge. There were no signs of the bridges burned down by the townspeople to keep the Union army out of their city.

"Back in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, sailing boats could navigate the Rappahannock. It was deeper then and the river still rises three feet with the incoming tide. It's no longer used by ocean vessels, but we have our own paddle wheeler if you would like to see the city from the water."

The bus left Sophia Street and went back into town. Connie tried to fit the guide's words to what she was seeing.

"That little white house is the smallest functional structure in the city. At the present time it is not in use, but at one time it was slave quarters for the big house you see on the corner."

Connie stared at the tiny white house and saw three black children playing in the dust in front of the door. An older girl was washing clothes in a tub and watching the children.

The tablet and pen had become props, Connie no longer made a pretense of making notes but instead she watched Fredericksburg—the real Fredericksburg, go by as the bus drove through the veil of time.

"Try to imagine that there aren't any buildings for as far as you can see, except the brown house on your right.” The bus had stopped in a narrow street. Connie didn't have to imagine the barren landscape, she could see it. She knew that between where they sat and the wood fence she could see in the distance was a canal. This was the death field for Burnside's army. By the end of the day on December thirteenth, eighteen sixty-two the fields were red with blood and blue with the mangled bodies of the Union army.

The bus moved on. Only a short fifty yard stretch of the original wall and sunken road survived over the years, but Connie could see it stretching far ahead. Landmarks that were built after the eighteen sixties weren't there; neither was the reconstruction being done on the Kenmore mansion for which the guide made apologies. Instead she saw the serene plantation house as it had been before the ravages of war had turned it into a hospital for Union soldiers after Lee lost the second battle at Fredericksburg.

The bus was heading back toward Old Town, as Historical Fredericksburg was called on the maps. Greg told his passengers about the Greek restaurant as they passed, it wasn't there. Connie closed her eyes and put her head down. She was suddenly very dizzy. She gripped the back of the bench with her right hand and tried to stop the spinning.

"It's all right. I'm right here.” She could feel Brian's breath on her neck and his hand on her arm.

"Sorry, I just had a dizzy spell. I think it's passing.” She allowed herself to relax, opening her eyes. They were passing the slave blocks on William Street. “But the scenery isn't."

"Tell me, maybe it will help."

"There's a black woman standing on the block. She's very young. She's holding a baby and another youngster is sitting on the street crying. A young man is being held back by several white men.

"It's so hard to believe that things like that happened in America.” Connie shivered as the bus turned onto Princess Anne and left the auction behind.

The bus had stopped and Greg expressed his well wishes to his passengers as they disembarked, paying the guide complements and leaving tips in the baseball hat on the front consol of the bus.

"I'm not so sure this was a good idea. You're more upset than you were at the church. Come on, Connie, you need some air.” Brian stood and shouldered his camera bag.

When had he put the camera away? Connie wondered. She must have really been out of it. She stood on shaky legs and went past the driver thanking him before she descended the steep steps. She gladly accepted the tour aid, Andy's hand to assist her.

"Oh, I forgot to leave a tip.” She turned to reenter the bus, fumbling with her purse.

"It's taken care of. Let's go over to the café and have something cold to drink.” Brian took charge and led the way.

The iced tea and cooler air that settled over the city as the sun moved further west, worked together to help Connie focus on the present.

Fraiser's Rest stood in front of them. The late afternoon sun sent the building's elongated shadow across the narrow street.

"It feels like home. Know what I mean?” Connie studied the building. “It's changed some. The windows have been replaced. The glass in them was wavy and the frames pushed out from the center to open. The shutters were wood and painted black. They were closed over the windows in stormy weather to keep out the wind and cold. Victoria liked to watch it snow, so she kept her shutters open except during the worst storms. The original wood siding has been replaced with aluminum, but it's still home."

Brian stood with his arm partly around her shoulders, his hand resting near her neck. “Well, it's comfortable and it is homey, but I don't think that's what you're saying. Is it?"

"No, it isn't. Right now I'm having trouble remembering what my apartment in Harrisburg looks like. This is Home with a capital ‘H'."

His hand touched exposed skin on her shoulder, sending a chill through her. Not an unpleasant feeling. Brian moved his fingers up Connie's neck, gently pressing on her chin, turning her face toward his.

Gradually Connie allowed herself to be distracted. She looked at Brian. Drawing back slightly he looked into her eyes. “I know it seems ... I feel like ... Do I have a place in all of this?” He stumbled over the words.

Connie knew he didn't mean as a friend. How do I answer him? Am I ready for another relationship? “I'm not sure—can we give it some time? We did just meet.” Hesitating, Connie turned away. What if he's like Phillip? We did just meet, yet...

Brian reclaimed his arm, putting his hands in his pockets. Connie felt the chill of exposure.

"Sure we can take it slow. You set the pace. Are you ready to go in? Or would you like to walk some more?” Brian waited, this time he was staring at the building across the street.

"Let's go in. I want to take a shower before supper.” Connie walked toward the looming house, hating the sudden tension between them.

The cool air in the dark hall raised the hair on Connie's arms after the heat outdoors. Joe's voice came from the parlor. “...to the grove is an all day trip. Do you mind?"

A softer voice answered, the words indistinguishable.

"You're a real Pennsylvania peach."

Brian and Connie reached the open parlor doors in time to see Joe lean toward Tracey and give her a noisy kiss on the lips.

Will I ever have that kind of relationship? Connie thought with envy. Looking up at Brian's smiling face. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to kiss him.

"But you taste much better.” Joe said.

"Behave yourself. We have company.” Tracey nodded toward Brian and Connie.

"We don't want to intrude. I'm on my way to raid the kitchen for cold drinks.” Brian said as he stepped into the room.

"I think I'll join you.” Connie followed him, reluctant to be alone.

"I could use a snack. Supper won't be ready for more than another hour.” Joe got to his feet, sending a small stack of maps and pamphlets to the floor. He leaned over to pick them up.

"After the big lunch you ate?” Tracey took the papers from his hand, placing them on the small mahogany coffee table.

"Hey, I'm a growing boy.” Patting his flat stomach, Joe waited by the door for his wife to join him.

Taking his arm, Tracey teased, “If you're not careful, you're going to grow in the most unattractive places."

Val, Betty's reliable house-help, provided a plate of fruit and cheese to go with their drinks.

Connie chose a chair facing the door to the parlor. She didn't want to repeat her experience of the previous evening when she watched the kitchen crumble in a pile of rubble, and reappear like one of those pictures that change depending on the light. It was a disturbing reminder that things weren't normal.

As it was, she almost choked on a slice of apple when a pile of blankets topped by a bridle, spurs and a dusty Confederate officer's hat appeared next to the blazing fireplace. Slowly the scene changed back to the present day reality of a cold hearth displaying a huge iron kettle.

Distracted by the changing times, Connie only partially listened to the banter around her, responding with a smile or nod when she heard her name.

"Are you with us?” Brian's hand touched her arm, and drew back when she flinched, startled.

"I'm sorry.” She laid her hand briefly on Brian's in apology. “I'm afraid I'm not very good company."

Joe put a piece of apple into his mouth and focused his attention on Connie as he chewed and swallowed. Tracey glanced expectantly from her husband to her new friend.

Connie drank the last of her lemonade. Hoping to make a discreet exit, she pushed her chair back, glancing at Brian. “I'm going to—"

"You've been there, haven't you?” Joe interrupted softly. His words silenced the room.

Connie froze. She stared with disbelief at Joe.

"Where do...” Brian's question remained unfinished.

"She knows where I mean. Back in time, cruising history.” He focused on Connie. “You've been tripping."

His words, though spoken softly, made Connie recoil as if she'd been hit. Without looking at Brian, she gripped his hand, her lifeline to reality.

"What...?” Connie's voice trailed off. Ice burned in her stomach, her head spun. She fell back into the chair, her back straight and her eyes fixed on Joe's.

"Tracey told me what happened at the Pub. It's happened to me, too. I've been back to both Civil War Battles of Fredericksburg."

Brian leaned close to Connie and whispered, “You're not alone.” He gripped her cold hand.

Taking a deep breath, she glanced at Brian for support before answering Joe. “Yes. I have. But how did you know? What makes it happen?"

Tracey answered. “We call it ‘tripping'. You have that lost look that Joe had the first time it happened to him. And at the tavern today I saw you coming back from a trip."

Finishing for her, Joe stood. “I'm afraid we don't know much. This seems to be some kind of conductor or conveyor.” He held the metal belt buckle at his waist, bearing the Confederate signature “CS". “I found it in a meadow at Spotsylvania, six years ago. We were on vacation. The first time I wore it, I was witness to its original owner's death. I won't wear it there again, but I found out who he was and from that, where he fought. We've been able to retrace his life from the time he moved to Richmond in eighteen forty-five as a boy with his family. We can't find anything before that."

Connie glanced across the table. “But I don't have a conductor. I seem to trip at random to times and places where Victoria is, or in the case of the Chapel, is just leaving. I don't have anything of hers.” Looking from the man to the woman sitting across from her, Connie continued. “You're right, Tracey, she was in the pub at lunch time. She walked in the front door and went into a back room through an opening where the dart board now hangs."

Brian watched the exchange with interest and skepticism. This was the stuff you read in sci-fi stories, or supermarket tabloids. Looking at the couple across the table he remembered the things that he had witnessed this afternoon ... why not? Strange things happened all the time, who was he to say it can't be.

"Victoria?” Tracey searched her memory. “That name's familiar."

"Victoria Brentwell. Her father, Dr. Maxmillian Brentwell, had this house built. She kept a journal. Betty gave me the transcript. Have you read it?"

"No. I glanced through it. We've been so busy, I haven't had the chance. Betty told us the family history last week."

"You must have a conductor,” Joe interrupted the two women.

"Not that I know of. How does it work?” Connie asked.

"I don't know, but it seems to be a necessary part of tripping. If I'm not wearing the buckle, I don't go beyond this time."

"It would have to be something of Victoria's.” Thinking aloud, Connie searched her memory for anything she might have that was a direct connection to the girl. “I don't even have the original journal, just the transcript. Betty said that the furniture is original. But that doesn't explain the tavern or the church."

"Maybe your connection is different than mine. Tell me about your trips."

Trying to remember as many details as she could, Connie described the mist that carried her into the past and surrounded her while she was there. “Only Victoria can see or hear me. When I went back ... tripped while I was waiting for you on the street, no one else noticed me, but Victoria started across the street just as I was pulled back. It's frustrating not to be able to control it ... and frightening."

Joe looked thoughtful as he relayed his own experience. “I'm not ‘pulled’ back, not since the first time when I found the buckle. Jeremy sees me. That's his name, Jeremy Nestor. But except once when he was a boy, he's usually pretends not to see me. Tracey and I went to Richmond to do some research and I tripped to his pre-war days. His dad beat him with a strap the first time he mentioned seeing a ‘ghost'. He never said anything after that as far as I know, not even to his wife. I know he saw me at the wedding and when his son was born. I gave him the thumbs up sign both times. He wasn't sure what it meant at first but I guess he figured it out from my expression and he nodded to me.

"When I want to indulge myself in a little on-hands Civil War history by tripping, I find a location, stake out a comfortable place to relax, and think about the War and Jeremy. And it just happens, almost like going to sleep.” Joe shrugged. “Tracey sticks close while I'm away. Don't know what I'd do without her. If I'm in danger of coming back in the middle of traffic or of being sucked up by a giant vacuum cleaner,” he glanced at Tracey with a smile, “she yells as close to me as she can. If I know she's trying to reach me, I break the connection. Once I had to take the buckle off, but usually I can just close my eyes and think about my pretty wife and I'm home. It works better than Dorothy's magic red shoes."

Tracey blushed at the compliment.

The small group fell silent, each with their own thoughts, when the kitchen door opened and Val entered, carrying a large, empty tray. “I'm sorry. I was going to clean up for supper, but if you're not finished..."

The four stood and pushed their chairs under the table, expressing apologies. Brian put his arm around Connie's waist as they moved into the parlor.

Tracey and Joe stopped to gather the maps and papers they'd left on the parlor coffee table. Connie and Brian headed for the stairs.

Connie stopped at her room. With her hand on the knob, she turned to look at Brian. “Thank you, for being there for me,” she said, acutely aware of the lingering scent of his aftershave and remembering the warmth of his hand in hers. Fleetingly, she thought of Phillip. His touch had been cold and brusque. Would Brian...?

Who cares? It's just for a week.

"I'm going to attend the services at the Chapel of Mercy tomorrow morning. I could use some company,” she said.

"What time?” Brian asked with a smile.

"The service starts at ten. Breakfast at eight-thirty should give us plenty of time."

Brian nodded in agreement.

Questions hung in the air between them and doubts, but there was hope too.

The silence stretched out, making them both uncomfortable. Connie turned toward the door, her hand on the doorknob. Brian's hand gently turned her back to face him. As he lowered his mouth to hers, Connie saw the desire in his eyes that echoed her own need, or was it lust?

The kiss was warm and brief. Its softness lingered. Brian's hands remained on Connie's arms.

"Supper will be ready in less than an hour. I have to get ready,” Connie said, but she made no move to enter her room.

"If you need me, yell and I'll come,” he said as he reached past her head and pushed the door open.

As Connie quietly closed the door between them, she felt strangely safe knowing he was nearby. She leaned against the painted wood, listening for his footsteps and the sound of his door closing.

Refreshed by her shower and a change of clothes, Connie peeked into the hall. Her eyes went to Brian's open door. A shaft of dim sunlight spilled into the hall. The light was temporarily cut off when Brian stepped over the threshold.

Connie watched him close his door and take a step in her direction. She smiled at the flutter in her stomach.

"Hey, you two going down for supper?” Tracey's cheerful call was followed by conversation and footsteps on the stairs as the Handleys descended.

Brian and Connie followed them to the dining room.

Brian wondered at Connie's simplicity. She's everything she seemed to be. Traveling through time. That certainly isn't simple, and it can be dangerous. Fear for her drove him to protect her from this danger, but how? What can I do?

Joe interrupted Brian's daydreaming. “Tracey and I are planning a picnic later this week. There's a small area of the Battlefield Park south of town where a stand of trees and a marsh once stood. Jeremy was bivouacked in the area north of there.” He paused. “I'm going to trip back to the day of the battle and look around."

"Have you ever gone back to the battle before?” Connie asked.

Brian listened as he watched Connie's interest build.

"Yes, several times. I've gone early in the morning and caught the shelling at four A.M. on the eleventh. I watched Barksdale's sharpshooters keep the Union engineers at bay and delayed the building of the pontoon bridge. The actual battle was on the thirteenth. Like I said, I was there a couple of times. They did a lot of shelling.” Joe seemed to be lost in his thoughts. “It was a foggy and tense morning. The real slaughter started later in the day, when it cleared. It was unreal.” Joe shook his head. “I haven't been able to stick it out to the end. It's pretty gruesome. I want to give it another try. Anyway, you and Brian are welcome to join us for the picnic part, if you like."

"Why do you keep going back? Aren't you in danger?” Brian watched as Joe shrugged.

"There's no danger to me.” Joe held his empty cup between his hands. “I can't be shot or wounded by the fighting. The only dangers are the dangers of tripping.

"Why I do it? I guess because I can. I wonder sometimes if there isn't some reason that I found the buckle instead of someone else.” Joe stood taking his cup to the coffee urn. “But too much wondering can get you lost, so I don't question the gift, I just use it."

"I'd like to go on the picnic, but I don't think I'll trip,” Connie replied. “I doubt if Victoria was there. Nothing in the documents I have explained what happened to the household during the war. They probably evacuated. Besides, I don't think I can watch men kill each other."

She turned to Brian. “Will you go too? If I do trip..."

Brian didn't hesitate. “Yeah, I'd like to see the area. And maybe we can find out more about what's happening to you, and how."

"Great.” Tracey took a bite of the apple cobbler in front of her. “We can ask Betty about a lunch basket."

"That sounds great,” Connie added. “Can you check it out, Tracey?"

"Joe and I took a lunch with us yesterday. There's a small charge, but the food's great and there's plenty of it,” Tracey said. “Joe, can you guys take care of the transportation and a couple of blankets to sit on ... oh, yeah, and the drinks?"

"Transportation isn't a problem. We can take my car. Have you set a day?” Brian looked at Joe.

"The weather is supposed to be nice on Thursday. If that's okay with everyone we can plan it for then.” Joe put his fork down and stood.

Today's Saturday, Thursday's years in the future. Brian pushed his chair back and moved behind it. He replaced it at the table to allow Connie to get past. Neither of them said anything as they left the room together. It was just as well. Brian was having trouble keeping his thoughts straight. On one hand he was looking forward to spending a day with Connie, but on the other, he worried about what might happen in the next four days.

Would the tripping continue? Would Connie get hurt because he wasn't able to help her? And the one question that scared him the most, would she get trapped in the past?

A cold wave of apprehension swept through him.

The steps hadn't been this hard to climb earlier. The long day and late hour was only part of it. Brian longed to hold her, but Connie made no move to encourage him. She was distant, perhaps distracted by her own thoughts. The kiss had been a mistake ... but he couldn't help it. Being close to her ... feeling the heat of her ... he hadn't been able to stop himself.

He waited until she closed the door before going to his own room. He stopped at the door and turned. An impulse to go back and knock, demanding to be admitted came and went. Shaking his head, Brian wondered at the effect she had on him.

He lay awake staring into the dark room for what seemed like hours. His head spun with memories of her touch, the feel of her hand in his, the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed and darkened to a deep indigo when she was frightened. If only there wasn't this other thing. If only...

His sleep was as restless as his thoughts had been. Visions of Connie mixed with the dozens of portraits and ambrotypes scattered throughout the house. They came to life.

As Victoria smiled at him she began to change, she was Tracey, then Joe, and now Connie, each of them smiling, urging him to trust them. Brian groaned quietly in his sleep.

Except for the chorus of birds and bees outside her window, the room was quiet. Connie glanced at the glowing green numbers on the clock radio, only seven ten. She groaned. Doze for another twenty minutes or get up. The thought of listening to even a few seconds of annoying DJ chatter was the deciding factor. Hitting the shut-off button, Connie rolled over and sat up on the bed.

A shower would wake her.

The bathroom was damp from steam. Rivets of condensed water ran down the mirror. As she closed the door, Connie moved across the small room and turned the lock on Brian's side; she could hear Brian opening drawers and humming. Smiling at the comfortable feeling it gave her, Connie stepped under the hot spay.

She had to keep reminding herself that not all men are like Phillip. At least, she hoped not.

Connie remembered the anguish she felt the day she'd surprised him—or rather Phillip had surprised her. Turning off the water, Connie stepped onto the cold tile floor. As she toweled herself off, her mind returned to the anger and self-pity she'd felt that day nine months ago.

Her attention was pulled toward the room next door and its occupant. Am I ready to commit to another man? Why am I even asking myself the question? The fear of another Phillip is too much to think about.

With a sigh, Connie unlocked the connecting door to Brian's room and returned to her own to dress.

Selecting a yellow sundress and jacket, Connie dressed and fixed her hair. While applying a touch of makeup, she heard noises from the bathroom. Trying to ignore her acute awareness of Brian's presence on the other side of the door, Connie picked up her purse and transferred the things she would need from her canvas bag.

It couldn't hurt to get to know him better, that's certainly not a commitment. His kiss had both disturbed and excited her.

As she prepared for the day, flashes from the Victoria's era overlaid the present. The array of bottles and tubes, and makeup mirror disappeared, being replaced by a Bible laying on a crocheted doily, and a glass candlestick. A blazing fire burned in the fireplace. Lacy came into the room and went to a small table laden with a bowl and pitcher. Connie remembered seeing her at the market yesterday. The servant reached under the bed and removed a chamber pot. Lacy left the room as it returned to the present day arrangement.

Connie waited for the dizziness to pass. I wonder what that was all about. Is tripping getting easier? Just like the everyday chores I saw Lacy doing, are my trips to the past becoming an everyday part of my life? I sincerely hope not. If only I could learn how to control them.

"How's the article coming?” Betty greeted her cheerfully.

"Good. Brian and I are going to services at the chapel where the Brentwells worshipped. Tomorrow I hope to visit the cemetery. Those old stones can fill in a lot of gaps.” Connie took a cup of coffee to the table.

"I'm anxious to read it.” Betty set a bowl of fruit on the sideboard. “It will be strange seeing our little B&B in a magazine."

Betty opened the kitchen door for Val to bring in the breakfast breads. “I hope you plan on being here for Sunday dinner. Val's making old-fashioned southern-fried chicken. Sundays we eat at one, and have potluck for supper."

"Sounds great. You can count on me."

"Me, too.” Brian entered and went to the buffet. He was wearing a camel suit, pale blue shirt, and navy and brown striped tie.

Betty looked from Connie to Brian. “Well now, don't you two just make a handsome couple."

Connie smiled at the compliment.

"If you need anything, yell.” Betty called out as she went back into the kitchen.

"Good morning, I didn't see you come in.” Connie carried her plate and cup to the table.

"Good morning.” Brian sat across from her. “Do you want to walk to church, or shall I drive?"

"It's a long walk in heels, even low ones, so I think drive. If you're sure you don't mind."

"I don't mind.” Brian idly fingered pieces of his pastry.

They finished their meals in a silence broken only by muffled sounds coming from the kitchen.

"I'm sorry if I offended you last night.” Brian spoke as he watched the traffic move in and out of side streets.

"You didn't offend me. I'm just not ready."

"Say no more. Let's just be friends.” Quickly he glanced over at his passenger.

Connie couldn't help smiling. “I can use a friend,” she agreed.

Skillfully maneuvering his battered blue car into a parking place, Brian stopped the engine and turned to face her. “It's a deal then?” He held out his hand.

Warmth spread from his hand to her own. “Deal.” Connie opened the door and stepped out into the morning sun before she could follow her impulse to kiss him. Maybe she was ready after all.

"You're making an impression,” Brian whispered in Connie's ear. Eyes followed them, as the couple was led to one of the boxed-in pews near the front of the church.

"Me? I think they're watching you. You're pretty impressive all dressed up, you know."

Brian worked the knot in his tie back and forth, as if it needed to be adjusted. “You could be right. They are probably looking at me,” he teased.

They settled on the hard seats to study the bulletin. As quiet organ music started, a couple with two pre-adolescent boys joined Brian and Connie in the pew, giving them an excuse to share one of the scarce hymnals.

Connie let the warm serenity of the small church envelope her. The stillness of the sanctuary should have given her peace, but her last visit to the Chapel had ended in a walk in the past.

As a child and teenager she had often attended church with her mother. Her father worked a Sunday shift at the steel plant and was seldom able to join them. Connie had been young, only seven, when her father died of a heart attack. She remembered his gaunt, ruddy complexion and thinning blond hair. He'd read the newspaper every evening before going to bed. He had always been kind to her and, she knew now, had provided for both her and her mother as best he could.

In school Connie had been shy and withdrawn. Always a full head taller than the tallest boy, she felt like a freak. Until high school, when the boys started to grow, and some of the girls. In all that time her mother never allowed her to wallow in self-pity. She encouraged Connie to make friends and to be a good friend in return. Soon she had more friends than she could have dreamed possible. In every crisis in her life her mother had been there to help and advise her, all but this one and one other, her death. Thoughts of her mother brought a surge of grief and loneliness.

Well Mom, Connie thought, what do I do now?

Taking a deep breath Connie quickly brushed away the tears with trembling fingers. Here, in this church, in a strange city far from home, she was finally able to accept her loss, really accept it.

The first chords of the opening hymn sounded, calling the congregation to stand and sing their praises. Connie was unable to join the chorus, her throat tight with sorrow, but she listened to the words of “How Great Thou Art” as the music filled the air. Connie tried to control her emotions by concentrating on the small altar graced with a vase of colorful flowers and a large Bible.

Brian held the book so they both could read the words. With a start he realized Connie was shaking. She couldn't have a chill; it had to be ninety degrees in here, with only a few floor fans to move the air around. She wasn't in the past, not yet anyway.

Listen to yourself, Brian. People don't just go back in time. We don't live in a Jules Verne novel. But Connie does. I've seen her myself. Still ... The argument had raged in his thoughts all night. The morning hadn't brought any answers, just the same old questions.

Shaking off his doubts, Brian reached for Connie's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze without looking at her upturned face.

As the last note faded, the congregation bowed their heads for the benediction.

Connie emerged from the shaded doorway, and turned her face to the sun's hot rays.

"Are you all right? You seemed upset.” Brian dug in his pants pockets for his keys.

"I'm okay. The church service brought back some memories. Sorry I got teary on you."

"Don't be sorry, we're friends. That's what friends are for.” A blast of super heated air escaped when Brian opened the car door. Connie lowered the window before getting into the car. Putting her head back, she closed her eyes and waited for the breeze to replace the stifling air with fresh. She felt Brian slide behind the steering wheel and crank his own window open.

They had driven only a short distance before the car slowed and came to a stop. Connie opened her eyes. They couldn't be at Fraiser's, they hadn't been driving long enough and she hadn't heard the gravel of the B&B parking lot.

Connie could see the river through the windshield. The car was parked on a side street that was vaguely familiar. Brian stood beside the open driver's side door, removing his tie and loosing the buttons at his neck. His suit jacket was already on the back seat.

"Where are we?” Connie looked around at the small park and the dock that reached out into the river, but she knew. Behind them, on the other side of the Sophia Street was the short stretch of preserved “Rocky Road".

On the other side of the river, was the location of the shantytown that Lacy and Sam had called home. It had been built above the swampy riverbanks. Victoria or Max Jr. had been sent many times to fetch either Lacy or Sam when their help was needed. She knew the run-down shacks she was remembering were nothing but dust, having collapsed long ago, the land reclaimed what was its own. Victoria had come here often after church to be alone. It was a quiet place to think. Connie could feel her presence.

"We have over two hours before dinner. I thought we could go for a walk along the river, unless...” Brian stood by the open door. He waited for Connie's decision.

"A walk's a great idea.” Her eyes were glued to the old wooden dock, Connie got out of the car, leaving her purse and jacket behind. “It's so peaceful."

Brian locked the car and followed Connie. He watched the straight line of her back and curve of her hips through the thin pale yellow fabric. What did he know about Connie Hart? Nothing. Less than nothing. He had never known what that meant, “less than nothing,” until now. When he came to a question, he filled in the blank for himself, right or wrong, thus, less than nothing. Not only didn't he know the right answers, but he was supplying wrong answers that were feeding his doubts. Doubts that he didn't want. But what were his options?

For one, he didn't have to be here, Brian reasoned, but he was and he wanted to be.

To be fair, what did Connie know about him? She'd put her trust in a man that she'd only known a little over a day. And like a fool he'd made a pass. Well, in his own defense, he thought, she is something. He'd never met anyone who had impressed him the way Connie had.

"This dock's been preserved and it's used today for the paddle boats that take tourists up river. It used to receive ships that came from Europe and from the North. It had to be repaired after the Battle of Fredericksburg, but you remember that from the tour yesterday.” Connie stepped onto the worn planks. “All the bridges had to be rebuilt. The Confederates destroyed them when Burnside arrived."

"You sound like a walking history book,” Brian said. He enjoyed listening to Connie. In some respects she reminded him of his mother.

Pauline Eckart was largely responsible for her son's interest in American history. She taught high school social sciences, the term used to group history and geography into one manageable class. Her gentle ways and soft words helped Brian through many a crisis.

Peter Eckart spent the first twenty years of his marriage to Pauline as an army accountant in the auditor's office. Brian grew up on military bases scattered across the United States and a few in Europe. When his father retired sixteen years ago, he and Brian's mother bought a house near Erie. His father opened his own CPA office and his mother registered as a substitute teacher and tutor with the local school district. Both retired two years ago and were at present on a cruise.

Brian thought of his parents with pride.

"What can I say? The Civil War has always interested me. My mother...” her voice caught for a second as Connie remembered her mother working at the kitchen table littered with papers and books. “...started working on a genealogy while I was still in grade school. She told me once that the Civil War Era was one of the most confusing times in our history and one of the most important. She was right. It's become a big part of my life. I've made a career from it."

As Connie walked further out onto the dock, she noticed someone standing near the end doing much the same as she was, looking across the quiet river, but something was different.

Snowflakes lazily drifted from the sky. The familiar green cloak moved with the gentle wind. Victoria must have felt her presence. She turned slowly to face Connie. A sudden gust blew the hood of her dark green cape back from her face.

"Who are you? What do you want?” Victoria's words were hollow, and unreal.

"My name's Connie Hart. I just want to know you."

The girl shook her head. “Are you a spirit?” She backed away a few steps.

"No, I'm not a spirit. I'm a woman, like you.” Connie didn't move. “I'm from a different time. A time in the future."

Victoria approached slowly. “I have seen you before."

Connie waited, rubbing her arms against the cold. What a sight I must be to this nineteenth century teenager.

Victoria reached out. Connie stood still, raising her hand with the palm up, she felt Victoria's cold fingers brush her own. A charge of static shot down her arm.

Victoria's eyes widened. “What are you? Where do you come from? You must be a spirit.” She drew her hand back to the protection of her fur muff.

"I don't know how I come to be here, but here I am. I've told you my name is Connie Hart. I'm not a spirit; I'm just a woman like yourself.” Her teeth chattered.

"I am Victoria Brentwell."

Connie nodded. “I've been reading your journal."

"You could not. I have just started it. I made the first entry today. It is a birthday...” Anger darkened her blue eyes.

"Storm clouds on the horizon,” Connie's mother used to say when Connie had the same reaction.

"I see, you've found the first one. While you were meddling in my room, no doubt. Yes, that is where I saw you, and across the street from the general store. Were you spying on me there as well?” Victoria reached behind her head and pulled the hood over her hair.

Connie stared with surprise, her mouth open. Victoria didn't understand. “Wait! It's not like you think.” It was too late. The young woman started to disappear in the increased swirl of snow, or was it the gathering mist?

Like some B movie, Connie imagined the pages of a calendar being torn away by some invisible hand as time brought her back to the present. November fifth, eighteen fifty-seven, November fifth, eighteen sixty-seven, November fifth, nineteen oh-seven, November fifth, nineteen thirty-seven, November fifth, nineteen fifty-seven...

Brian was saying her name from somewhere nearby.

"We have to stop meeting like this,” she whispered, fighting the spinning world. His strong arms held her upright.

"You're right. I don't know about you, but this is tough on me.” Relief was evident in his worried tone. “You're cold. I swear I saw snow melting in your hair."

"You may have, but I'm all right.” Connie straightened, using Brian's arm to steady her first steps. “I could use some coffee, though. Let's go somewhere warm and I'll fill you in."

The pent up heat inside the small car felt good. Connie watched out the window, enjoying the sights and sounds of spring.

Emptying her cup Connie pushed it aside. “Can you imagine? I talked to a girl from the nineteenth century. How can I make her understand who I am, and where I come from?"

Brian didn't respond. How could I deny what I saw with my own eyes? Any good actor could pull off the theatrics at the river, but who handled the special effects?

Connie stood. “Let's go home. It's getting close to dinner time."

Brian paid their bill and followed her to the car.

Pulling into the small parking lot behind the B&B, Brian parked in a vacant space next to the Handleys’ Harley.

"Thank you.” Her eyes bright with excitement, Connie opened the door as she spoke. She walked toward the house. How did she top this? Connie wondered. She'd stood on a dock talking to a pre-Civil War teenager. Where did she go from here? More important, how did she get there?

Val stood in front of the sink washing salad greens when Connie reached the kitchen. The smell of frying chicken and fresh baked pies filled the room. “Dinner smells great, Val.” Connie said.

"Thank you, Miss.” Val answered, before returning her attention to her preparations.

As she climbed the steps Connie considered the repercussions of tripping. Should I go back? Remembering the movies she'd seen and books she read, Connie thought of the dangers of “time-travel". Of course they were fiction and this is real, still ... I could change the course of history. I could be responsible for an entire line of descendants not being born, or just as bad, a line of ancestral maniacs.

The question was moot at this point, she reasoned. I don't know how or why I'm being drawn to the past, and I have no control. And that's frightening. I have to find a way to control my trips ... or stop them. Connie felt a wave of sadness.

Soft knocking at her door interrupted her thoughts.

Scarcely taking notice of his surroundings, Brian followed Connie. When he reached the landing, her door was closed.

Brian knocked lightly. “Can I come in for a minute?” he asked.

Silence greeted him. About to give up and go to his own room, Brian heard the knob turn. Connie's flushed face smiled up at him. How could he have doubted that face? He repeated his request. “Can I come in?"

Pulling the door open, Connie stepped back allowing him to pass.

"Sorry I ran out on you,” Connie apologized as they moved to the furniture near the windows. “I'm still reeling. I'm excited ... and I'm scared to death."

"I guess so. It's not something that happens everyday. Well, not to everyone.” What do I want to say to her? Why did I feel it so important to talk to her? What kind of hold does Connie Hart have on me? Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Brian turned to face her. “I think we have to talk about it.” As he searched for the words, a chasm of silence grew between them.

"Let's sit down.” Connie indicated the wing backed chair as she went to clear a place on the small sofa for herself, putting papers and envelopes in a neat pile at one end.

Brian lowered his tall frame onto the chair. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Brian, if you have something to say to me, say it.” She paused. “I'm not crazy,” she added quietly.

Looking up Brian smiled weakly. “I can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind.” Pulling himself up, he looked into Connie's eyes. “A few other things crossed my mind, too, but I'm becoming a believer.” Every part of his being wanted to trust Connie. He needed her reassurance.

"There isn't anything I can say. I don't know what's going on myself.” Tilting her head slightly, Connie asked, “Can you tell me exactly what you saw?"

"Where? At the church? The river?"

"Both. I don't know if it would help, but I have to know more."

"Okay.” Brian paused, gathering his thoughts before he continued. “At the church, in the records room, you were looking at the book. Then you ... a cloud, a mist surrounded you and you faded. I don't know how else to describe it. I could still see the cloud, but not you. When I asked where you were, you didn't respond. But I knew. I followed the cloud when it moved. I could hear you talking. Your voice was hollow, like it was coming from the inside of an empty room, a really big empty room, and far, far away. I couldn't make out the words, but it was a comfort just to hear you, and know you were all right. When I tried to touch the cloud it moved away from my hand. I felt a sensation like ... like static electricity.

"In the vestibule, the mist ... you stopped and hovered over the pedestal with the book. And you came back. At first, I could see a swirl of colors, then I saw you.” Brian paused. “I've got to say I was worried. You were white as a ghost and shaking."

Standing, Brian started to pace in front of the sofa. “The bridge ... the bridge was worse. I was looking at the water, when I looked up you were gone. I could hear you. I had to look closely to see the mist. In the sun it's not as murky; I could see through it, it was like looking through some of that wavy glass you were talking about.

"Once I found you, I stayed with you. From what you've said you were talking to Victoria. What did she have to say for herself?"

Connie smiled. “Oh, you know, just things. She wants to know who I am, if I'm a spirit, and why I broke into her room and stole her journal. That kind of stuff.” She got to her feet and stood facing Brian.

"I want to see her again, but to tell the truth, I'm scared out of my skull. What if I can't come back? I don't leave the same way that Joe does. I don't make any conscious effort to slip into the past. Who's to say that I can will myself back? I need your help, but I can't ask you to get involved. You have to make that decision.

"You've seen what can happen. I don't know what else might be waiting out there. Victoria is the only person who has seen me and right now she's angry."

Brian reached for her hand. “Fair Lady, it would be my honor to be your Knight in Shining Armor. Just tell me what I can do."

"Just be there, it's a comfort to know I can count on you.” With a gentle squeeze Connie released Brian's hand.

Putting his hands in his pockets, Brian hid his disappointment. “Maybe we should start with learning as much as we can about this mist. I've told you what I see; tell me more about what your end is like."

"Okay,” Connie returned to her seat on the sofa. “It's a strange feeling, like you might imagine being in a cocoon would feel like. I can hear my own voice just fine, but Victoria's sounds hollow, like she's in an empty room, but not far away like you said, I can hear her loud and clear. Everything around me is a little distorted, wavy. I could feel the page of the book in the church and the heat from the pot-bellied stove, the cold air of winter and the snow falling on the bridge. I felt the static too, when Victoria touched me. I know I'm being pulled back when the shell I'm in starts to get cloudy, and the world starts to spin.

"Does that help?” she asked.

"I don't know. But I found the best way to solve any problem is to know all the facts. So it can't hurt. There has to be an answer in there somewhere.” Brian looked at his watch.

"You should get some rest. Dinner is in forty-five minutes. I'll knock on your door in thirty-five. Okay?” When she nodded Brian went back to his own room through the connecting doors.

Connie smiled at the closed door. The room was empty without him, she thought wistfully. Touching her fingers to her lips, she stood and took a step toward the bathroom.

She stopped. What had gotten into her? One quick kiss and she was ready to fall into bed with a man she barely knew. Looking back at the pile of papers on the sofa, Connie changed direction. She had work to do.

Connie picked up her notebook and settled in the armchair. She started writing everything she could remember from her encounters with Victoria. The work soon took over, moving Brian to a back burner. She became lost in the events of yesterday and today.

Her pen stopped, poised over her clean, rounded script.

The journal.

Victoria mentioned a second journal.

Victoria's hands shook in the warm rabbit muff. The strange woman faded, disappearing in the gray swirl of snow. Had she been here at all?

I touched her. Yes, I touched her and talked to her. She had a name, Kone Heart. A strange name, but everything about her was strange, the way she appeared and disappeared, the clothes she wore or the lack of them, the mass of uncontrolled curls that crowned her head, and she was taller than most men.

Remembering the anger she felt when Kone told her she has been reading her journal, Victoria wondered how she knew of the book. What has she read? Did she read all of my secret feelings? No, she must be mistaken; the book is in my room, hidden and safe where no one would think to look for it. “I know it is,” she said aloud to convince herself that it was so. “She saw it when she was in my room ... she must have. I don't know how long she was there before I found her that night."

Victoria wondered where Kone had gone. Where does she go when she disappears? She strained to see through the swirling snow. Is she here, hiding? Will she come back? With a smile she realized that she wanted to see the strange woman again. She would have much to write in her new journal today.

Mama said my vision was caused by the misery ... Mama. I can't tell mama or papa or anyone about Kone. They will think I am mad. No, Kone will be my own secret. If I am mad, it is a nice kind of madness.

Pulling her cloak snuggly around her neck, Victoria walked to the road. Her feet were cold; her shoes provided little protection against the gathering wet snow that quickly soaked through the thin leather. What had possessed her to take a walk on such a threatening day? How could she explain to her father the uncontrollable urge to go to the river, now?

Victoria was so deep in thought that she didn't hear the horse and buggy approach.

"So there you are. My dear girl, what strange impulse brings you out for a walk on a day such as this?” the man asked.

"Mr. Brewster, I will be profoundly thankful if you would offer me a ride home. I'm afraid that I made a poor choice of activities. My shoes have gotten wet. My feet will be frozen if I must walk."

"And if I did not offer you a ride, it would be your right to spread the word that Evan Brewster is a cad and an oaf, not worthy to sit at table with any respected family of the community.” As he talked, Evan climbed down from the covered conveyance.

"By your leave?” he asked, receiving a nod of assent he pulled a step from the carriage and assisted Victoria onto the seat before walking around the impatient horse to reenter from the other side. He spread a blanket over both of their laps.

Victoria glanced shyly at her benefactor. “How did you come to be on this road? I thought only doctors like my father and foolish girls like myself ventured out in such weather."

"I have been out searching for you, my dear. I stopped to pay my respects to your parents only to find that you had gone out in this terrible weather. I offered my services to your father, and here I am.” Turning to look at the figure huddled next to him, Evan asked, “How is it that I found you at the dock? Surly, you weren't expecting an arrival tonight. It has to be the coldest spot in all of Fredericksburg, with the blowing wind and snow coming off of the icy water."

"I often come down here to watch the ice on the water. I find the chill a pleasure and I'm afraid I lost track of time. If it hadn't started to snow ... It was a foolish thing to do, and I promise that I will be more careful in the future.” Victoria watched her father's friend. How impressive he was, so handsome and charming, and papa said he is a successful barrister.

Evan picked up the reins and gently snapped them against the horse's flank. “Lacy is making hot toddies for us. You will need to tend to your feet, before harm comes to them.” As the carriage started to move he turned his attention to the perils of the ride.

Victoria smiled. So Mr. Brewster will have a hot toddy with me. Annabelle will be envious. She knew her long-time friend would like to have the Barrister Brewster court her, but Victoria had the advantage.

Evan Brewster and her father had met at a meeting of the church elders. Mr. Brewster having newly arrived in Fredericksburg sought membership in their church. Dr. Brentwell and the barrister found mutual interests and quickly became friends.

He became a frequent guest at meals, bringing Prudence out of her depression. But Victoria noticed, too, that he was very attentive to her own needs and comfort.

Putting her hands deeper into the rabbit fur muff, Victoria admitted that she enjoyed his nearness. She could smell the cigar smoke on his coat. She felt so young next to his mature years. She had no illusions. Mr. Brewster would seek out the beautiful daughters of the plantation owners outside the town or those of the well-off merchants, for companionship and marriage, not the likes of herself or even Annabelle, but still ... she could dream.

Connie found the small block wrapped in cloth in the bottom of the wardrobe where she had moved it after cleaning up the mess at the fireplace just days ago. Could it be? Carefully removing the protective cover, she discovered a leather-bound book, the cover peeling and brittle with age.

Her hands shaking with expectation, Connie carefully opened the cover. The spine cracked in dry protest. “Victoria Brentwell” was neatly printed near the center of the first page. The second line was a date, “November 1857". Under this was one word, “to,” and nothing else.

As she began to read, Connie felt Victoria's presence.

5 November 1857

Mama and Papa gave me this new journal for my birthday. I know I will think of them both when I write in it.

5 November 1857

evening. I saw her again. Last week I thought she was a dream brought on by my misery. Mama once told me all sorts of strange things will happen when it was that time. But I did see her. This time I talked to her and she to me. She appears in a strange cloud and her voice comes from a great distance. She wore a thin dress the color of a sunflower that did not cover her limbs, it was more an undergarment than a dress, yet she wore no other. Her shoes were but straps that held a piece of leather to the bottoms of her feet. Her name is Kone Heart.

A shiver crept down Connie's spine. Her hands shook so hard she thought she would drop the small book. Resting it in her lap, she continued.

Are you wondering the same of me, Kone?

You spoke of reading my journal. I do not know how this could be. The first is safe where I have hidden it. It may be that in this same way you will read this journal, then I shall write it as a letter to you. I hope to see you again.

I hope to see you too, Victoria. Connie thought.

A quick knock at the adjoining door drew Connie away from the diary, and back to the cozy room.

"Come in, Brian,” she called out.

Carrying the small book with her, Connie went to the door as it opened. “I have something to show you."

"What's wrong?” He looked around the room. Everything seemed in order, but Connie's cheeks were a bright pink, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. She'd been tripping again. “Has something happened?"

"No. When I talked to her, Victoria was angry that I would be reading her journal.” Connie went on without waiting for his comment. “She also mentioned that she had just received a new journal for her birthday."

"Don't tell me.” Brian reached for the small volume.

"Yes. It's the other journal, the new one. I found it yesterday, but I didn't know what it was. It was behind a loose stone in the fireplace. I put it away without looking at it when I went down for supper. I forgot about it until now."

"The other journal?” He repeated turning the book over. “It's really old."

Connie's voice quivered with emotion. “Read the first entries."

The small book was almost lost in Brian's hand. He studied it with interest.

"It's fragile,” she warned.

Brian gingerly worked the cover, carefully separating the yellowed pages. It really was old.

Connie rubbed her arms.

"This is spooky,” he said after reading the first page. It wasn't a fake. At least to his untrained eye, it wasn't. Since he decided to trust Connie, it had to be the real deal.

"I feel like I'm in a fun house. The whole world is topsy-turvy. The things I say when I'm with Victoria could change the things she does. What then? Do I wipe out half the future population by saying something that convinces her to become a nun? Or maybe, I talk her out of doing something that would cause her death, adding some insane strain to the already insane world? Do I have a right to do that?” Connie started trembling as the words gushed out. Saying them out loud was somehow worse than thinking them. “On one hand, I wish there was some way of stopping this ... but on the other, I can't wait to talk to her again."

Laying the book on the bed, Brian went to her shaking figure. “Stop it. Something is taking you to the past; you aren't just on a pleasure trip. There's a reason for it. What if there's something you have to do, and you aren't there to do it? That could also change things.” His voice was gentle but firm. “We can talk after dinner but right now I think you need to come away from the nineteenth century for a while. You need to talk to people from your own time."

Taking her hand, Brian led Connie from the room. “Besides, if we don't show up for dinner, the others will wonder what we're doing.” He tried to lighten her mood but found Connie was deep in thought. She allowed herself to be guided to the steps.

"What are they celebrating?” She paused on the stairs, her hand gripping the worn banister.

"Who?” Brian watched Connie tilt her head, listening.

She turned looking up at him. “You don't hear them, do you?"

He confirmed her assumption with a shake of his head.

"It's the past then.” Connie continued her slow descent.

The empty parlor appeared in front of them. Connie stopped inside the door. As her eyes darted around the room, Brian put his hands on her shoulders and whispered next to her ear. “Do you see anyone?"

"No,” she whispered back. “But I can hear them talking. Some men, they are celebrating something. I keep hearing the name ‘Evan'.” Connie's teeth started to chatter. “I'm cold. Let's get out of this room.” She moved quickly toward the dining room.

As he lingered in the parlor, Brian felt goose bums rise on his arms. Was it cold in the room? Or was he reacting to Connie? He followed her.

Taking a seat next to her, Brian watched as Connie warmed her hands on a cup of hot tea. They were alone for the moment.

"Are you all right? You look like you've been pulled through a keyhole."

"Thanks. I needed that.” The cup shook slightly as she put it to her lips.

"My God woman, you look like hell.” Joe's voice intruded on the couple. The Handleys filled glasses before going to the table.

Connie looked up at them. “That makes it almost unanimous.

"Joe! Men are so mean. She doesn't look that bad, just a little tired.” Tracey blushed

Brian smiled. I'll bet she wishes she could swallow her words.

The others laughed at Tracey's embarrassment.

Connie laughed with them. “It's been a rough day, but I'm all right. I promise to get a good night's sleep.

She tried to follow the conversation and banter during the meal, but Brian could see the strain behind her smile. He heard the hesitation in her laugh. Her mind must be on Victoria and the diary waiting to be read. Neither of them mentioned the book to the Handleys.

Someone had drawn the heavy drapes in the parlor while they ate. The room was darker, and the air cooler as Brian and Connie walked through it and up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Tracey and Joe had gone out for a walk.

He waited in the hall as Connie opened her door. She stood holding the knob in her hand, her back straight. Words scrambled in his head. Words that he wanted—needed to say. He wanted to be with her, nearby, to help or comfort. Yet he was quiet.

She turned. “I'm going to read for a while."

"The diary?” As she nodded, Brian continued, “Do you want me to stay with you?"

"It's only two-thirty and a nice day, don't you want to get some pictures?"

"I have all week to work. Today is my day off.” Not wanting to pressure her, Brian tried to think of a compromise. “Tell you what, I have some writing to do, it will take about an hour or so. While I'm working we can leave the connecting doors open, just in case, and around four we can go out for some fresh air. What do you say?"

"Sounds like a plan.” Turning, Connie went into the room, closing the door softly.

His arms ached to hold her, to try to comfort her fears, to tell her everything was going to be all right. But there was more, he longed to feel the warmth of her body against his own, to taste her breath as they kissed, to smell the lingering scent of shampoo in her hair.

He'd never felt this way about anyone. It must be a macho thing, see a girl with a problem and suddenly he had all the answers. That morning he'd been trying to figure out if she was crazy or a con-artist, now ... Brian, old boy, you better keep a clear head. He closed the door to the hall, before going immediately to open the connecting door.

She stood on the other side of the bathroom. Neither of them spoke. Connie smiled before turning away.

Macho thing, hell, Brian released a held breath. I just want her. Have to be patient, don't rush her, she has enough on her mind right now. But patience was never one of his strong points and having Connie so near would make the wait even harder.

With deliberate care Connie prepared for an afternoon of work, ignoring the invisible pull toward the room next door. She picked up the newly found journal. With the ever-present notepad and pen nearby, she got comfortable in the wing-backed chair. A frown furrowed her brow as she focused on the faded words. Settling into the pillows she began to read, Brian temporarily put in some remote closet of her brain.

10 November 1857

It is one of Maxi's chores to bring in wood for the fireplaces. Lacy's husband, Sam, makes sure the kitchen is supplied every morning. Today he helped Maxi fill the boxes in the downstairs rooms and bedrooms. I wondered at this, Sam has never helped with anything in our house, except if Lacy makes him. Sam has a lazy way about him. But I have discovered the secret of Maxi's charm. Sam has agreed to take him hunting. An adventure they both enjoy. I have never eaten stew more to my liking than the rabbit dish Lacy prepares. Sam tans the pelts. I have a muff made of those from fall a year ago. It was my birthday gift from Lacy and Sam. Kone, I wish you could know Maxi, Mama, and Papa and Lacy and Sam.

26 November 1857

A gentleman has asked to call on me. He is not the first, but he is the most worldly. Evan Brewster is a barrister and a friend of Papa's. He has many meals with our family and I see him in church and at socials, but he never approached except to show kindness as a family acquaintance. I thought he saw me as a child. I have hidden my own interest except to my good friend Annabelle Hastings. She in turn has teased me greatly and I her as she also harbors an interest in the barrister.

I will wear my Sunday dress and the green cloak and take the rabbit fur muff. We are going for a buggy ride.

What a fine figure he is. He is as tall as papa, my head barely reaches his chin, but thinner, I think. His hair is dark and he has mutton chops, trimmed short, that grow down the length of his face to his chin. He has no beard or mustache. I am glad that he does not cover his smile. It is a very nice smile. I hope my appearance will not shame him.

Connie closed her eyes against the building headache, after a few minutes she turned back to the journal. Why was the name “Evan” familiar?

30 November 1857

The air was cold and the ride bumpy, but I had great fun. Lacy made hot toddies for us when we returned. She stayed until Evan took his leave, as my father had instructed.

He kissed my hand. A thrill ran through me when he touched the lace of my glove. Even the smell of him makes me dizzy.

17 December 1857

Evan squires me to all the best places. We have seen traveling stage shows, and dined at a Judge's house. I have suffered their boring conversations on slavery; every man in my life seems to have an opinion. Why is this a question at all? The plantations need the labor to operate. Lacy and Sam are freemen, as are their children. How is slavery different? They must all work to live, free or slaves. Evan sees the freeing of the slaves as the downfall of the South and another sign of how the North interferes where they are not wanted.

28 December 1857

Evan has gone to Washington, I do miss him. He sends me letters and I answer them but they are sorry replacements for the touch of his hand and his presence at the diner table. Mama is concerned by my depression. Her own has disappeared since Evan's arrival. It is strange that she should worry about me when all these past months I have worried about her. She has taken over her duties as mistress of the house, cleaning and directing Lacy in the kitchen. She still will not go to the market, leaving that job to me.

We spend idle hours in the parlor or in her room reading, or sewing and talking.

9 January 1858

Evan arrives home tomorrow. Lacy will help me prepare the evening meal in his honor.

10 January 1858

He kissed me. My toes felt the thrill of it. He asked my permission to go to Papa for my hand in marriage. As it is expected of him, Evan has written to his father and received his blessing. Of course I agreed. He will ask after supper next Sunday.

17 January 1858

Papa gave his permission. The wedding will be in my sixteenth summer, a little more than two years from now. Lacy and Mama will help me prepare a chest of linens. Mama pledged the set of china she received on her betrothal. Papa promised a horse and a real buggy not the pony cart I now use. Maxi will make a chest of fine wood at his job with Mr. Carson, the cabinet and barrel maker. He is skilled at building things. I know it will be beautiful.

Before leaving Evan asked me to walk with him. Snow had started to fall again, only lightly this time. The air was cold, but his hands were warm as he touched my face. “You are beautiful. Before long you will be a woman. It will be hard to wait."

I agreed. “The wait will be hard for me also.” I told him. He smiled and kissed me gently. His lips a feather's touch on mine. I could taste the cigar he enjoyed so much and the brandy he shared with Papa. Even one year is a long time, but two? I pray they pass quickly.

2 February 1858

Much is happening. Mama and I are going to Richmond to meet Evan's family and friends at the end of May. Lacy will accompany us. Papa has promised that he and Maxi will join us before we return at the end of June. I have much to do in preparation. I am excited, but afraid too. What if they do not like me? Will Evan and I still marry? He has said as much, but he is kind and may be trying to spare my feelings.

25 April 1858

My fingers are stiff with the great amount of sewing. Mama too has been making new dresses for the trip, as well as putting a fancy edge to a linen tablecloth as a gift for our hostess. It is beautiful. Lacy is preparing a special basket of food to be eaten on the long train trip.

18 May 1858

We leave next week. All is prepared. I would be happy not to see another needle this summer, but alas, Mama and I will have to make new clothing for the beginning of my married life.

5 June 1858

Evan is an only child. His father owns a tobacco plantation ten miles south of Richmond. His parents, Henry and Elsie, are very kind to us. Lacy shares a room with one of the house slaves. Next weekend we are going into the city for two weeks. Accommodations have been arranged at a hotel. We will attend a play, an opera and several gatherings planned in Evan's and my honor.

20 June 1858

We returned to the plantation today. Mama and I await Papa and Maxi. Elizabeth Ann, Evan's cousin has proved an entertaining companion and a friend. Her family lives near the Brewster's and we have spent many hours riding or talking. She is fond of her cousin, and is happy that it is I who will marry Evan.

28 June 1858

Maxi and Papa arrived today only to say we must prepare for the return trip immediately. There is turmoil in the country and danger everywhere. John Brown has done murder and was hung, all in the name of freeing the slaves. A home militia will be formed to guard against the likes of another John Brown or, God protect us, an uprising among the negroes. We are prepared to depart in the morning.

After supper, the men retired to the den to smoke and talk over brandy. The ladies shared tea and cakes in the parlor. I found it hard to sit still and make small talk. I strain to hear the sound of his voice. We retired early. As I passed the den, I could hear the men talking. Papa spoke his opinion that slavery is not necessary. Negroes could be hired as workers at a decent price that would still allow a profit. “After all, he said, “there is expense in sheltering, feeding and clothing slaves."

Henry Brewster spoke loudly, saying that if he was to free his servants, it would be to set them loose in the streets, no better than stray dogs, to take care of themselves and probably to starve. While now they were fed and clothed, taken care of, as freemen they would die, being too dumb to know when to come in from the cold.

The door opened, surprising me. It was Evan with Maxi close behind. “And what are you doing here, my girl."

"I was passing by on my way upstairs.” I blushed at being caught, but was pleased it was Evan who found me. We went to the parlor. Maxi excused himself and went into the evening for a walk before bed. He and Elizabeth Ann took quickly to each other. I wonder if she is waiting for him tonight.

Evan held me as never before, his arms pulling me close. I have never felt so safe, or so frightened. I could hardly breathe. Why was I afraid of Evan? He would never hurt me. His eyes narrowed and his face reddened as he gazed into my eyes. Evan pressed his parted lips to mine, gently pushing his tongue into my mouth. I pulled away, surprised. He released me mumbling words of apology. I stopped them with my finger on his lips. Leaning to him, I using my tongue as he had used his. His face darkened, I thought him angered by my brazen act. But he was only surprised. “Have you lied to me? You are not yet fifteen, but you have the instincts of a mature woman.” I could see that I pleased him. We sat together holding hands as we talked about our future and made plans. We had forgotten the reason for our early return to Fredericksburg.

Evan will have a house built for us. I will make a list of the household items we will need and he will provide them.

Connie smiled enjoying Victoria's excitement. Unable to make out many of the entries following the trip, she skimmed the pages. Some showed a line here and there to indicate that words had once filled them.

5 August 1858

Evan calls several times during the week and attends Sunday church and dinner every week, but we are never alone for more than a few minutes. I ache for him to hold me again as he did in Richmond.

21 September 1858

So much unrest. I hear bits and pieces of conversation coming from the parlor when the mayor or councilmen come to call on Papa. They bring news of killings and raids as near as Maryland and brutal murders in Kansas. Papa said some men think violence is the only answer to a question. If others do not agree with them, they become the enemy and must be silenced.

His anger worries me. He tries to calm my fears by telling me that the problem is with the men that ran the country not the women who cook and sew for them.

Evan too, put me off by telling me the problem was in the government and not the household.

For the first time, the reality of the approaching war made Connie fear for the girl. Would she be prepared? Could she cope with the madness and murder? The loss and hardships? Many had, and survived to start again, but could Victoria?

Recognizing the small pangs of hunger, Connie was surprised to see that it was after five, supper would be served before long.

She quickly read the entries for the next few months.

To Victoria's distress, Evan was being a gentleman as they attended events in and around Fredericksburg. Barn dances, carnivals, music in the park, church picnics, rides into the country, walks along the river were all noted and duly appreciated. By her fifteenth birthday, Victoria was feeling the physical pangs of a woman yearning for the man she loved. Connie knew what the young woman had gone through. Her own body was responding to Brian's presence.

Val's call to supper was loud and accompanied by a bell, not the soft far-away call she had hear the first night she was at the B&B.

Brian was waiting for her when she opened her door.

"Sorry, I fell asleep,” he said.

"And I was looking forward to that fresh air,” Connie replied. “Tell you what, you can make it up to me by going for a walk after supper."

"It's a deal.” Brian followed her to the stairs.

The meal was quiet. The Handleys had gone out for the evening to witness and be part of a re-enactment of a town meeting. She and Brian ate alone sitting across from each other. They talked about everything but Victoria and the journal.

"Still up for that walk?” Brian drank the last of his coffee and prepared to leave the table.

"I need the fresh air, yes, lets go.” Connie emptied her glass and stood.

They had been walking for ten minutes, aimlessly exploring the surrounding streets and alleyways. They didn't talk much; instead they enjoyed the pleasant spring day and each other's company. It felt “right” to be there with Brian. She had never felt this way about Phillip.

"Brian, tomorrow I'm going back to the church. I want to explore the cemetery and make some rubbings of the headstones. If you won't be bored or have something else you have to do, you're welcome to come along.” Connie turned slightly to see his face.

"Sure, I want to get some pictures of the building and I can help you with the rubbings. Do you mind if we leave early? I want to see what effect the morning sun has on the church."

"Is six-thirty okay for breakfast?” Connie said.

"Sounds good. We can get there around seven if we drive.” Brian agreed.

"Okay, six-thirty then. If you don't hear sounds from my room by six you may have to knock on the door and make sure I'm up."

"You got it.” Brian smiled down at her.

Twenty minutes later, they approached the front door of Fraiser's Rest. Brian said, “I have to get more film. Would you like to go along?"

"I think I'll go upstairs and lie down. It's been a long day and I haven't been sleeping well,” Connie answered. “But I could use some more aspirin. Do you mind picking up a small bottle for me?"

"You got it. I'll be back in a while. I like to run the car every day to keep the oil moving. That short trip to church only teased her. She's getting old and needs her exercise to keep limber.” Brian waved as he started around the house to the parking lot in the rear.

The work had gone well. The article would be ready on time, and it would be good. But Connie's quest to solve the tripping events was another problem. The list of questions nearly filled two pages of her notebook.

Why Fredericksburg? Why Victoria? What drew her back? Would the time come when she couldn't return to her own century? Was there some way to control the trips? Would they ever stop?

And what about Victoria? Would she marry Evan? Would she have children? Would she live to be an old woman satisfied with the life she choose? What was she doing in the Blackstone Inn? Was she involved with the Westerlys’ clandestine affairs? How did she know the Westerlys owned the Blackstone and how did she know about their clandestine affairs?

What happened to the rest of the Brentwells? Did Max Jr. join the army? Did Prudence recover fully from her depression? What did the doctor do during the war? Did he run a hospital or aid station, or did he work out of his home? Does Evan further his career during the conflict? Does he go into politics?

A lot of questions, Connie thought, reading the scribbled pages. Would she ever be able to find all the answers? Maybe the cemetery would provide some of them. At least the final answers.

As she prepared for bed, the occasional kaleidoscope changes in the room seemed normal. Approaching the bathroom, she watched the expanded wall disappear, leaving a small table holding a wash bowl and pitcher standing next to a connecting door. Connie waited quietly until the small room reappeared.

The sheets felt crisp and cool against her warm damp skin. Since her visit with Victoria on the dock and reading the new journal, Connie felt she had a sister of sorts, a kindred soul. Maybe Victoria had questions and restless nights thinking about Connie.

As usual, sleep didn't come easily, and the night was filled with dreams.

Victoria stood between Connie and Brian, his arms outstretched in appeal. No matter which way Connie moved Victoria continued to separate them. She found herself pleading with Victoria to release her from the bond that was between them. Victoria only shook her head with a sad smile. The attractive nineteenth century teenager started to change. Her features grew mature, her body filled out, the high necked pale blue dress was replaced by one of dull gray, buttoned to the neck, its lines straight and skirt lifeless, a man's worn fedora sat on the dark hair. She changed again, her body became lean and tough, her face grew wrinkled with age and weathering, her hair grayed, she held a cigar between her teeth. A vaguely familiar face looked at Connie. As Victoria took the cigar from her mouth, she smiled and her lips moved. The words were lost in the hush of the dream, but Connie suddenly felt calm. Everything would be all right.

Victoria stood watching the sleet bounce off of the windowpane. She clutched the journal to her breast. The gloomy afternoon filled her with loneliness and doubts.

Does Evan really love me? He says he does.

Do I really love him? A harder question, but yes, I think I do.

His lips were gentle when they brushed my hair as he prepared to take his leave. When he tilted my head back and kissed my lips, I longed for more, but he left me as a thirsty man teased by a drop of water.

What would my sister from the future say to my thoughts?

With a start, Victoria realized she knew little of Kone, yet she thought of her as a “sister".

I don't know if she is married or a spinster. Does she have children? Does she live in Fredericksburg?

Slowly turning from the window, Victoria sat in the armchair, the journal still held tight against her body.

I have seen her in this room, at market, and on the dock.

She recalled the strange visions. The first time had frightened and later angered her. Returning to her room for a night of slumber, she found a strange woman dressed in strange clothing in her room. As the woman called out, she faded and disappeared. How had she known my name? Why was she in my room? Where had she come from? And where had she gone?

There were other times. Kone appearing and fading as Victoria returned to her room one morning last fall. Lacy carried the chamber pot and slop bucket.

"There's a chill, Miss Victoria. Would you be wanting a fire?” Lacy had asked.

"No, Lacy. It is just a draught. The sun will warm the room.” Victoria had watched from the hall as the tall figure in a yellow dress dissolved.

She wore a dress of the same color when I saw her at the river on my birthday. I walked in snow, and she in sun.

What day was it in Kone's time when she appeared this summer? I sat on the armchair as I am today, writing in my journal, when Kone appeared, a dark blue cloth over her arm, a light breeze moved the thin garment that covered her. She did not see me, but stared at the wash basin before fading into a cloudy mist.

It has been almost a year since we met that cold winter's night at the river, I don't know if she is reading the notes I write in the journal or even if the journal has been found. I have so much to ask, so much I want to know.

With a sigh, Victoria dipped her pen into the small pot of ink and began to write.

13 October 1858

It has been a long time since I saw you last, Kone...

Victoria put the pen aside and covered the inkpot. Her fingers were cramped from writing. She reread the words before blotting the last page and closing the book.

Carefully wrapping the journal in a piece of scrap drapery material, Victoria moved toward the grate and the dying fire. After putting the book in the opening, Victoria checked that the first journal was still safe before sliding the stone back into place.

She swept up the bits of rubble that had fallen onto the hearth. Stirring the ashes and partially burned wood, she banked the fire. Lacy would have broth and fruit for the evening repast.

Will I see you today, Kone? She smiled remembering the times she glimpsed the ghostly figure sitting at the table while Victoria and her family ate.

And last Christmas she was helping Lacy in the kitchen when Maxi and Papa had returned from securing a tree to be decorated with candles and a Yule log to burn in the parlor on Christmas night. Victoria watched as they made their way to the Parlor. Kone was sitting at the table, watching the men's excitement. She was pale and surrounded by a mist, but she smiled with them. She seemed to be talking to someone sitting with her. Perhaps she was sharing her pleasure with someone special.

I hope you have someone special, Kone.

Before going to the kitchen, she laid several pieces of split oak on the hearth, to be added to the embers in the fireplace when she returned for the evening.

Emptying the basin into the slop bucket, Victoria went to the door. Before she left the room, she turned back. “Kone, are you here?” she whispered, waiting. When the room remained silent and empty, she sighed and closed the door quietly behind her.

Monday

A light rain had started sometime during the night. Connie didn't know if it was the cool air from the air conditioning vents or the tapping of drops against the glass that woke her.

She turned the artificial cooling off and opened the windows. The clean smell of the spring shower, added to her improved mood. Some small memory of dreams that haunted her during the night remained, but the visions were lost. For the first time since arriving in Fredericksburg, she felt at peace and in control.

Was she deceiving herself? Maybe, but today, she didn't care.

Looking out over the wet cobblestones, Connie wondered, How often did Victoria stand in this very spot? Did she leave Fredericksburg during the war? Did she go some place safe? Did she survive the war? Connie hoped so.

With a start Connie remembered the dream. Victoria had lived a long life. She changed from a young woman to an old woman in her dream. But could dreams be trusted?

The rain stopped. The sun broke through the layer of clouds. Its early morning rays sparkled on the street. By the time Brian and she were ready to leave the dampness should be gone. Glancing at the clock radio, Connie saw it was too early for her breakfast date with Brian. Dressing quickly she put her equipment together in preparation for the day ahead.

Sitting against the antique bed's headboard, she read more of the old diary, stopping when she heard water running. Brian was up; a thrill of anticipation ran through her. It was going to be a good day.

She returned to the neat, slanted script before her.

13 October 1858

It has been a long time since I saw you last Kone. I imagine that you live in some far off country and cannot visit due to fear of the open sea. I pretend not to know that you come from a different time, a distance more impossible to travel than all the oceans.

I wish often that you were a friend like Annabelle and I could visit you in your parlor, or you could call on me, or we could meet at church.

Many things seem to be wrong with the world and I feel a very small part of it. I fear that I will be overlooked and perhaps trampled.

Pastor Bricker tells us to pray for understanding between the politicians in Washington. Evan tells all who will listen that we should pray that Washington leaves us alone to govern our own state. What is to happen to us, Kone? What is in the future for us? I fear war, yet I do not know why. I have not seen it; perhaps it is because I know killing is a part of it.

10 January 1859

After Sunday supper, Evan and I walked to the river. It is wild and beautiful in the snow. We stood on a stone bridge and talked of our future, the cold finally driving us to seek shelter. Evan has given his services to the city as organizer and leader of a local militia. A home guard. He said it is his duty. He and the guard will stand to protect our city's boundaries from the threat of the likes of John Brown and possibly a conflict with the northern states. He has concerns that his absence from me caused by this new commitment will harden my feelings for him. I assured him, there is nothing that could change my desire to be his wife.

23 April 1859

Evan is again drilling the small band of boys who have joined the Home Guard, Maxi is among them. Papa hopes Evan can bring some control to my brother's mischief. Though he is older than me by two years, he acts like a child. Maxi likes strutting around with the other young men pretending to be soldiers. He thinks he is impressing the schoolgirls gathered to watch, and perhaps he is, but my brother has been smitten by only one. Elizabeth Ann writes him letters, and he responds in kind. She is to visit Evan this summer. I think it is not her cousin, Evan, she wishes to see.

Annabelle and I took her pony cart to the old Corrigan farm where Evan drills the guard most evenings and every Saturday. We stayed until Evan caused us to leave. He tried to be kind, saying we were causing his troops to forget why they were there. We promised not to return.

18 May 1859

Evan will release the Home Guard from their training the Saturday of the community Spring picnic. He will enter the games with me. Papa thinks this is unbecoming of a barrister and man soon to be married. Soon? The wedding is a year away. The wait is harder than I ever thought it could be.

Lifting her eyes only when a light knock drew her attention, Connie glanced at the clock. Time had slipped by, it was after six.

"Are you up?” Brian called beyond the closed door.

"Yes, I'll be right down,” she answered.

They ate in silence. Connie kept her head down, intent on the plate in front of her.

"Are you feeling okay?” Brian studied her. “If you would like to put this off, I'm sure we can find another time..."

Looking up Connie said, “I'm fine. I've just been thinking about Victoria, or rather my trips back in time. I realized that I stay in the same time of day, but not the same day, time of year, or even the same year. When I went back in her room, at the church, and on the bridge, Victoria was a teenager, but at the Blackstone, she was older, not much maybe. The war had started, the bar was packed with Confederate soldiers and she wore a soldier's disguise. She knew about me. That's why she wasn't surprised to see me, and maybe even expected me to be there."

"That's interesting and it can be worthwhile considering when you pop in on her.” Brian refilled both of their cups with coffee. “It can make things confusing if the visits aren't in sequence. You might say something that you and she talked about a year later, and she won't remember."

"I'll keep it in mind.” Connie sipped the hot liquid. “I don't know how long this will take today. We should be done by early afternoon."

"Doesn't matter, I'm yours for the day. As a matter of fact, when I got back yesterday, I asked Betty for a picnic lunch and cooler of ice water. It should be ready. Do you want me to add anything?"

Connie shook her head. “No, that sounds fine. The water will be better than a sugared drink. I'm glad you thought of it."

Her eyes looked past Brian. Quietly he asked, “What do you see?"

Shifting her glance to his worried face, Connie smiled. “Preparations for Christmas. Young Max and his father just returned from a journey in the snow. They were talking about a tree and Yule log they left outside. Lacy is fixing their breakfast while they warm themselves by the fire. I can only catch bits and pieces of the conversation. It's like watching a faint TV image projected over the room."

"I wish I could see them too.” Brian watched the wonder on Connie's face.

"I wish you could too. It really is something. But seeing a second world visible on top of our own makes me dizzy.” She stared at the fireplace hearth as she talked. “The past doesn't worry me anymore. It's the problem of getting back and forth that bothers me.” Connie looked into Brian's eyes. “I want to thank you for coming with me today. Are you sure it won't interfere with your own plans?"

"Nope, like I said, it fits right in. It's a perfect morning to get some good background clouds. They'll be great to show off the steeple of the chapel.” Thoughtfully Brian mulled over his ideas. “I haven't decided how to take the Blackstone yet. Something dark and gloomy, I think."

"I agree, it has a shady past, somehow not quite sinister, but in the shadows.” Connie stood, placing her napkin next to her plate.

White clouds drifted across the open blue sky. A few small puddles remained, but not for long. The sun was going to prove their mortal enemy.

Connie climbed the two steps to the chapel door. “What?” She was surprised to find it locked. “Brian, look, the welcome sign isn't here anymore. There's a placard next to the door where the sign was Saturday."

"What does it say?” Brian continued testing angles for his shots of the old church. He twisted a series of filters onto the lens; satisfied, he put the instrument to his eye and started adjusting the focus.

"There's a list. The pastor, four elders, and the sexton, one Charles Farnsworth, also listed as the person to contact in case of emergency. No mention of Harvey Bender.” Turning Connie saw Brian was waiting to take his shots. She moved out of the picture.

Brian talked as he worked. “Maybe he was sexton and retired. He could still think of himself as The sexton."

"That could be it, I guess,” Connie agreed.

A neat lawn extended to the sidewalk on the corner, in the back the head stones of the long past stood in proud, fairly straight rows. Connie started in their direction. “The church outgrew even this large graveyard years ago. I wonder when they stopped using this one.” Green hills with rows of white stones stretched to the left and rear of the church. The streets were built as close to the retaining fence as was considered respectable.

"My guess would be around the turn of the century.” Brian snapped pictures as he talked. “They probably had a small congregation. The church won't hold more than a hundred or so people. If they had grown bigger they would have built a new church. It was big enough for their needs at the time."

He followed Connie to the back of the church.

"These closest to the building will be the first to be buried and maybe some of their families if they thought to reserve enough plots.” She scanned the even rows of stones set close together. Some were no more than sheets of slate dug out of the ground and chipped into dagger shaped markers. The engraved messages had worn smooth. Some descendants of the dead had replaced their ancestors’ stones with new markers, more modern marble headstones, while others were long forgotten and ignored, by all but the grounds keeper.

Brief legend told of the lives lost and lived: “Mary Kemp, loving wife, 46 years 3 months 2 days, 1785 to 1831"; “Harold Douser, respected elder, good husband, 1797-1857, 60 years 4 months 13 days". And of the young lost to some mutual disaster: “Jonathan Murphy, 2 years 3 days, 1820"; “James Murphy, 3 years 2 months 21 days, 1820"; and “Martha Murphy, 1 year 4 months 3 days, 1820".

How did a woman live with the loss of three children at the same time? Connie wondered as she looked for the stones of the parents. They were nearby, two narrow markers stood together behind the smaller three, as if to watch over them. Karl Murphy died in eighteen fifty-six at the age of sixty-five a loving husband and grieving father. Catherine Murphy, devoted wife and mother, did not outlive her children my many years, dying in eighteen twenty-five of despondency. She was only twenty-four.

Connie read as many as she could, stopping to etch some of those who died during the Civil War and a few years beyond, especially those who had served in either army.

"Connie, what was Harvey's last name? It was Bender, wasn't it?” Brian called.

Connie didn't look up, her hand busy making an etching of a stone left in memory of a young man who died in eighteen sixty-three. The engraved ‘CS’ above his name showed that Rollin Carpstairs had served as a Corporal with the Confederate Army. He had died for his cause at the young age of eighteen years, seven months, and fourteen days. “Yes, Harvey Bender, sexton since fifty-one.” She finished the rubbing and sprayed it with fixative before carefully placing it with the others.

"I think you should see this.” Brian waited.

Taking the roll of paper and charcoal stick, Connie carefully picked her way through the obstacles.

Brian had moved into the field of stones. The sun had finally evaporated the remaining puddles and dried the last of the moisture in the grass. The warmth of the sun had long since burned away any cool air. He stood, his eyes focused on a marker midway to the outside fence.

The stone appeared smaller than those around it. On closer inspection she saw that it was broken. Something or someone had snapped the thin stone almost perfectly in half. The groundskeeper had carefully placed the top half in front of the bottom, leaving it rest at a sharp upright angle. The top half held the name “Harvey Haverford Bender". The next line listed his service to the small chapel, ‘faithful sexton 1851—1898'. Below was the jagged break in the stone.

"It can't be.” Connie knelt, dropping her supplies. Gingerly she touched the rough stone.

Brian crouched beside her, looking into her face. “It would seem we have been visited by a ghost. Until yesterday, I would have told anyone who said that that they were crazy, but today. Why not?"

Connie turned to look at him, her eyes full of tears.

"What's this?” He wanted to reach out and wipe away a drop making its way down her smooth round cheek.

"I can't help it, I liked that old man. I expected to find the Doctor, and Prudence, maybe Max, if he didn't move away, and even Victoria, but Harvey is ... well it's just a surprise to find him here."

They sat in silence, each with thoughts of their own. Finally Brian broke the stillness. “Why don't you make a rubbing? I'll help you move the stone and you can get the bottom part too."

Nodding Connie reached for the paper and after judging how much she would need, neatly tore a piece off. Brian held it in place while she worked. The words were clearer than on the original stone when she was finished. Harvey had died in eighteen ninety-nine. He had been almost eighty-seven years old.

With a sigh, Connie struggled to get to her feet. Brian put his hand under her elbow for support. “I have to see the Brentwell's plot. The doctor was a very respected man.” She turned slowly to face the small stand of trees at the top of the hill overlooking the small church. “He would have selected a choice spot. The top of that hill would be my guess."

"Sounds right to me.” Brian hoisted his bag to his shoulder and viewed the hill through his camera. “If I was important, I would see to it that my family was buried in the most comfortable place in the cemetery, and the highest point."

Connie's smile turned into a light laugh. “And if your crazy friend insisted on spending a hot day looking at tombstones, you would try to find a most comfortable place to look.” She started walking toward the trees.

"It's the logical choice. Where would you pick if you could choose from almost the whole graveyard? He lost a daughter in fifty-six or fifty-seven, didn't he? So he would have laid out the area before the war.” Brian fell behind as he stopped to snap a few shots of the grove in the distance.

She walked to a small stone lying flat in the ground on the edge of the grove. “Evangeline Amanda Brentwell, stillborn 1857” Connie felt a surge of sadness. “This is it,” she called over her shoulder. “It's the Brentwells. I'll be awhile."

Without waiting for an answer she started working. The rubbing didn't take long. Connie stood, afraid to look at the stones nearby. Instead she glanced around for Brian. He was busy snapping pictures of the old stones and statues. Connie watched him work.

The quiet little church sat at the bottom of the grade glistened in the sun. It was getting close to noon. The snowcapped stones sparkled like diamonds on a white velvet cloth.

"Kone, are you all right?” She knew the voice immediately, but it was different, huskier, and deeper in tone than Connie remembered, but that could have been caused by the tears that made tracks on the girl's face.

She nodded, unable to answer right away. Then she remembered the small stone. Connie stepped back. She stood, and looked at the marker. The broken ground around it was bare of the snow that covered the rest of the open field. No other stones were near. The cemetery ended at the tree line a few feet beyond them.

"I never knew her, but I miss her still.” Bending in front of the small stone, Victoria reached inside her fur muff and pulled out a small brightly colored wooden horse. “Do you think she will like this? I want to bring something for her on her birthdays, but flowers will not survive in the cold. Papa had the stone placed at Mama's request. She said it wouldn't be proper to leave the grave of their child go unmarked with the wedding coming soon. I hope Evangeline likes the toy."

Connie smiled wondering what kind of mother Victoria would become. “I'm sure she will."

Victoria made a small hole in the broken soil and after placing the toy in, covered it, and with a soft pat sent it to be with her sister. She stood putting her hand back into the muff. “I miss seeing you, Kone. I would like to see you more often."

Connie wrapped her arms across her chest. “I would like that too. But I don't know what brings me back, or makes me leave."

"You are dressed for warm weather, are you not? Is it proper in your time to show your limbs so openly?” Victoria quickly glanced toward the road.

"It is almost summer in my time."

"Ah, I love the summer. Going on picnics, reading under the trees, walking along the river, do you do those things?"

"As a matter of fact I do,” Connie said.

"I must go.” Victoria looked again toward the road in front of the church.

Connie heard a horse whinny.

"Evan has returned with the wagon. I hope we will meet again soon, Kone. Maybe we can learn what strange thing is happening."

Connie heard the muffled hooves of the horse and the whisper of the sleigh being pulled over the packed snow. Victoria was a young woman, but she and Evan weren't married yet.

Her long green cloak stood out against the new snow as Victoria went back the way she had come, following her own footprints across the field to the front of the church. The hill was too steep to climb up or down in the snow. There was no wall. It must have been built later.

Straining to see the man getting down from the seat, Connie moved closer to the bank. His scarf and the overcast sky hide his face from view, but he was well turned out in waistcoat and bowler. He seemed polite and respectful to Victoria. That went a long way in Connie's book.

"CONNIE! Stand still.” The sound of Brian's voice made her stop in her tracks.

The Currier and Ives picture in front of her, the man fitting a cover over his lady's lap in the sleek black sleigh with the bonnet up to shield them from the wind, and a fine horse to pull it, started to fade. She tried to reach into the past, trying to make it last a little longer.

"Don't move,” he called again.

Where was she? Why was Brian shouting at her? She turned too fast and lost her balance.

Connie realized too late, she was standing on the top of the chopped off hill, the waist high wall no longer in front of her but behind, between herself and Brian. The steep slope that had once been there, had been cut away to make room for a new road, and there was nothing beyond where she stood. Her arms wind-milled as she tried to get her balance, but she could feel herself falling.

"Got ya!” Brian's strong hand caught her loose shirt, pulling her toward him, he held her as close as the barrier would allow. “God you scared me."

"Me, too.” She tried to cover her fear with a nervous laugh.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't realize what was happening until I got close enough to see the cloud on the other side of the wall. You were coming back, the colors got darker and swirled. I didn't know if you would hear me.” His voice caught, perhaps reacting to what might have happened. “I was on the ground trying to get a shot of the clouds through the tree branches, something made me look up."

"It's all right. You were loud and clear,” she said, her voice a whisper. They seemed unable or unwilling to release each other. Brian was trembling as badly as Connie.

Several minutes passed, finally Brian looked at the three foot high stone wall. “I suppose you can't get back the way you got over."

Realizing for the first time that she had walked through the wall, or at least through the place where the wall was later built, Connie agreed with a nod. She sat on the rugged stones and pulled her feet up; she let Brian lift her to the other side.

Putting his arms around her trembling body, Brian pulled her close. My God, I could have lost you. The words were only in his head but she seemed to know what he was thinking.

"It's over now. I'm all right.” She pulled back and looked into his face. “And I promise to be more careful."

"Let's take a break, get some lunch,” he suggested. “Give us both a change to calm down."

"In a little bit. I want to finish the rubbings on the Brentwells first. I have to get back on the horse that threw me.” There was a quiver in her voice.

Brian nodded. He wouldn't let her go further than his own arm span. “I'll be right here."

He felt her cold fingers on his bare arm. “I'll get back to work.” Her mouth curved into a smile. “Thank you for being here."

"My pleasure.” He returned the smile. “I'll get my equipment and be right back. I can get some pictures of you working. Maybe you can use them in your article."

"Could be,” she agreed. “Okay, to work then.” Connie walked the last few feet to her discarded supplies, bending to gather the unraveled roll of white paper.

Brian wasn't surprised to see that her hands were still shaking.

The work wasn't as hot under the trees and with Brian's help went quickly.

Prudence was buried next to her infant daughter. Born in eighteen twenty-five, she died in nineteen oh-two. The short legend “Wife and Mother” told little of her seventy-seven years, nine months, and twenty-two days of life.

The next three markers were small. None lived to see their fifth birthday and all were Brentwells. Elizabeth Ann Brentwell, devoted wife, rested next to Maxmillian, Jr. Had the three children been theirs? Did they have any other children that survived to maturity?

"Maxmillian Wolfgang Brentwell, good citizen, beloved husband and father.” The stone was larger than any other around as befitted the standing of a prominent citizen. It stood on the opposite side of the tree, further up the small grade. Had anyone ever wondered why the doctor and his wife were separated, even in death? Dying in eighteen seventy-two at sixty-six, the short tribute to his memory noted his service as a surgeon in the Confederate Army, an elder of the church, and leader in the community.

So the doctor did join the army.

What about Victoria? Connie scanned the stones around the Brentwells, but could find none with the name Victoria.

She selected several other headstones to copy. Two were young soldiers and the third was another “good citizen". His stone was almost as large as the doctor's, but unlike Max, he had been buried with his wife nearby.

She made the rubbings of their stones with Victoria in mind. The man's name was Evan Brewster. Could it be Victoria's Evan? His wife's name was Annabelle (Victoria's friend?). The Brewsters had died within a year of each other, in eighteen eighty-five. The graves of Simon and Henry Brewster proclaimed that the Brewsters had at least two grown sons.

After eating a quiet lunch, Brian and Connie sat under an ancient oak to sort and bundle the rubbings. Gentle breezes pushed at the tall trees’ new leaves. The chipmunks frolicked nearby. Clusters of insects moved in small clouds over the wild flowers that grew around the trees on the far end of the lot.

"Nature at its best. I hate to leave, it's so peaceful.” Closing her eyes, Connie leaned back against the tree's rough trunk.

Connie sat up. She looked around the field spread out in front of her. Clouds hid the sun. A chill made the hair stand up on her arms. A distant rumble announced an approaching storm. “Boy, they came up fast,” she said. “Brian, we better get going.” She looked around. Brian wasn't there, neither was the roll of rubbings.

"Oh, no,” she groaned, “it's so soon.” Feeling guilty that she would be unhappy about seeing Victoria again in such a short span of time, Connie searched for her in the gathering gloom.

She looked back at the small marker. The grass carpet had long since enveloped Evangeline's grave. No stone marked Prudence's grave, it was not yet her time. There were new markers, one of the lost children Connie had seen, and in its place of honor on top of the knoll, Maximilian's stone stood as testament to the fallen doctor. The grave was fresh, not more than a month old, new grass appeared in the turned soil, but for the most part it was bare. A bundle of dead and dying flowers had been thrown aside, and a fresh bouquet lay at the stone's base.

"She has to be here.” Connie looked down at the road. It was busy with wagons and carriages trying to beat the bad weather. Turning she could see the field of tombstones behind the chapel.

Victoria stood silhouetted against the darkening sky. The skirt of her long dress bellowed out in front of her, as she looked up the hill, but she didn't make the short journey. With a lifted hand to show she knew Connie was there, she turned and went to the closed carriage that waited in the street, the pair of black horses pranced uneasily. Connie watched until even the sound of the hooves had disappeared.

The wind slowed to a breeze. The sun melted the black thunderheads into white cotton balls. Sounds of birds and bees, chipmunks and squirrels, insects and birds filled the air. Connie could smell the wildflowers and scent from the honeysuckle.

Brian snored softly nearby, his head next to her knee. She knew that was to alert him if she decided to take another unexpected walk.

She thought about Victoria. This visit bothered her. Why hadn't she walked up the hill? I know she saw me. Connie tried to puzzle out the reason. The Doctor had just died, the year was eighteen seventy-two. Did that have something to do with Victoria's actions? Maybe the journal would shed some light on the mystery. Another thought stopped her short. Victoria was still alive in eighteen seventy-two and so was Evan. She must have married and moved away. But not Evan. Annabelle married Evan.

Connie watched as Brian woke.

Smiling up at her, Brian stretched. “Are you ready for lunch?” He stifled a yawn.

"Yep, and I'm hungry.” She got to her feet, brushing dried grass from her legs and shorts. Connie looked around one last time before starting down the grade.

"Let's go put this stuff in the car and find a good place to picnic.” Brian picked up his camera bag and waited for Connie.

Making sure she hadn't left any of her charcoal sticks or trash Connie moved to Brian's side. “How about somewhere near the river? And on the way I'll tell you what happened while you were napping."

It was almost three when Connie and Brian stepped through the front door into the cool house. Summer wasn't far away. The temperature had climbed into the high eighties.

Someone was singing with a radio. It was coming from the end of the hall, the kitchen. Either Betty or Val was working on supper preparations.

"Think we can get a soda?” Connie looked into the dining room, it was empty and the sideboard was cleared.

"I'll go see if I can scrounge some up. You go on up.” Brian walked toward the music.

Cool air started to drift into her stuffy room when Connie turned on the air conditioner fan.

Why didn't Victoria come to her in this time? Why did she have to take all the risks?

What makes it happen? What's the conductor? Joe has his belt buckle. Could it be the journal? Connie rubbed the rough cover gently with her fingertips. No, she'd ruled that out. How could that be? She had seen strange things on the way into town, before she knew about the book, or Victoria. If she could find whatever it was that was tying her to the nineteenth century, maybe she could control the trips.

Walking to the window she watched the tourists. How happy they looked, enjoying the company of their families while they learn their history. She too dug in the past, looking for ... what?

Lifting her hand to her mouth, Connie started to bite nervously at her thumb. She stopped, and looked at the trim nail. An old habit, it had been one of the few sore spots between herself and her mother. Many times her mother had pleaded, begged and even threatened her in her efforts to stop the destruction. Not until Connie found solace in the study of history did she abandon nail biting.

She closed her eyes. The edge of the cut-away bank, her foot raised to step off into space—what if Brian hadn't been there? What kept her from staying in the past? How did she trip in the first place? It all came back to finding what the conductor was. Without it she was helpless when she tripped, unable to project herself back to the present, to break the connection. The past drew her, she wanted to go, but she wanted to know that she would come back and not be in danger. Her fingers twisted the small ring on her little finger, another nervous habit, this one new and less destructive.

There was a noise in the hall. “Connie, can you get the door, my hands are full,” Brian called softly.

Connie hurried to let him in.

Carrying a tray containing ice filled glasses and frosty cans of soda, Brian walked quickly to the small lamp table. “I brought a cola and an orange. I didn't know what you would want."

"I'll drink the orange.” Connie poured the drink and sat on the sofa.

"Are you really all right?” Brian filled the second glass of ice with the dark liquid. He looked into her eyes. “I'm afraid for you.” No, that's not strong enough. I'm scared to death that something is going to happen and I won't be able to stop it. Frustrated by the shake of her head, Brian wanted to shout at her. I don't want to lose you. Let me take you away. But he was silent.

"I'm okay. For now anyway. We know a lot more about what's going on than we did yesterday. If we can figure out what connection I have with Victoria, maybe we can figure out what the conductor is and I will have more control over these trips."

Connie set her glass on the small table, putting a napkin under it to soak up the condensation. Crossing her arms, she walked to the window. “Going back and forth isn't too bad, just a little confusing. I'm afraid—but I'm curious, too. There's a lot of questions I want answered. The first one is, has this become my world?” She stood staring out at the window. “Will I keep bouncing back and forth in time? Will I get stuck in the past? Maybe I won't want to come back to the present? I don't know."

Brian moved to stand behind her.

She continued, “I haven't told you everything. When I look out this window I see three homes across the street, not two. I can see the pile of ashes and bricks that were left when the one on the corner was burnt down by looters during the days before the Battle of Fredericksburg. The house next door was damaged, saved only by the rains. I see the streets being overrun by soldiers, not bad men, but the enemy. When I come into this house, I can see bullet holes in the front door. Sometimes I can smell traces of animals inside the house, I don't know why. I can't ask Victoria, not yet, because whatever it was hasn't happened in her world. When it does, then I will know. I told you about the damage in the back of the house. At night when it's quiet, I sometimes wake to the voices of many men talking, sometimes laughing downstairs. I saw the red door with the black iron hinges at the Blackstone. Inside, I saw a passageway that isn't there anymore. I touched the wet ink in the church log. Brian, I have seen houses where they once stood and dirt roads where there are long established housing developments.” Connie turned to face him. “My God, I stood on a stone dock, and talked to a girl who was only seventeen when the Civil War started, and only fourteen when I was talking to her. The stench of spent gunpowder is everywhere, I hardly notice it anymore.

"I'm afraid, scared to death, but I have to know why this is happening. I have to know why Victoria isn't buried here, but Evan is, next to Annabelle Brewster. What about the thing in me that seems to reach out to Victoria? What's the connection there? I'm afraid, but the biggest fear I have is that if I don't find the answers—I don't think I can live the rest of my life like this.” Connie looked at Brian. “I know it's dangerous, and damned scary, but I have to find out why I'm pulled to the past or I'll never be able to live in the present."

"You may be right.” Brian put his hands on her shoulders. “We'll do it together. Try not to worry. We've made a pretty fair team so far, haven't we?

Brian felt her relax, just a little.

"Have I thanked you for stopping me at the cemetery yet?” Connie put her hands over his and lowered them.

"I'm glad I was there to help."

They looked into each other's eyes. For several seconds neither spoke.

Brian finally broke the silence. “I think you need a break. How about tomorrow we go the Chatham? It's across the river and was a private estate before the Civil War. With any kind of luck Victoria never went near the place and we can just be tourists."

"You're right. Chatham sounds like a good idea. I understand there's a great view of Fredericksburg from there. I need a good picture for my article."

Leading her to the sofa, Brian sat next to Connie. They sipped sodas and talked about the next day's trip, until Brian was sure that Connie's fears were at least temporarily put at bay. He drained the last few swallows in his glass and watched as Connie did the same.

"I'll take these cans downstairs. Do you want anything else? Another soda? A snack?” Brian picked up Connie's empty can and went to the hall door.

"No, I have some work to do before supper, I better get to it.” She walked with him to the door, stopping to pull the stone rubbings from her bag.

"Okay, I have to take film for developing so I'll be gone for a while. Will you be all right? I can wait and drop it off tomorrow.” Brian stood with one hand on the doorknob and the other holding the tray with the empty glasses and soda cans. More than anything he wanted Connie to ask him to wait until tomorrow. He wanted to sit with her and hold her hand, touch her face...

"I won't be going anywhere. I'll see you at supper.” Connie smiled.

Reluctantly he closed the door, silently promising to be back as soon as he could.

As the door closed softly, Connie could still feel Brian's presence, the comfort and security it brought. Don't be too long. Why hadn't she asked him to wait?

Impatient with her growing dependence on Brian, Connie turned to the rolls of paper. Kneeling on the floor, she smoothed them out one at a time. Soon she was lost in her work. She separated the rubbings into groups, putting the Brentwell family in one, the soldiers and Harvey in a second and the other assorted names from the era, including the Brewsters in the last.

The Brentwells were all there, father, mother, son and family, infant daughter, but no Victoria. What happened to Victoria? She must have married someone else and moved away. That would explain the missing grave. She didn't die during the war. She had gone to her father's grave.

A remembered vision of Victoria dressed as a Confederate soldier at the Blackstone Pub stilled Connie's hand. What was she doing there? No one questioned her presence or stopped her from going into the back room. Was Victoria part of the Westerlys’ clandestine activities? Perhaps she shamed her family and was disowned or worse.

"Victoria, what were you up to? It was after the war had started, but how long after? The soldiers were excited, and happy. Had they won a battle? The first Battle of Fredericksburg?"

Standing, Connie went to the wardrobe. She took the cracked leather volume from its hiding place. Would there be answers in the small book? There was only one way to find out.

Connie sat on the bed and opened the book.

15 November 1859

Did you see him? I saw you watching from the top of the hill. He is so handsome and mature. Evan is 33 and never wed. His search for a wife was put aside while he read the law. He has mutton-chops, great and bushy. He talks of growing a mustache, but thinks a beard not suitable. With or without it he is grand.

We will be married July 8. Mama and I have been preparing the dowry chest.

"Yes, I saw him.” Connie's brow furrowed as she looked down at the charcoal rubbing of Evan Brewster's tombstone, the corner of Annabelle Brewster's was visible at its edge.

Evan and Papa talk over their brandy and cigars in the parlor every Sunday afternoon. They talk of the politicians in Washington, and the price of crops, and livestock. They find little to agree on, but much to discuss. And at the end of his stay, Evan seeks me out and we walk together to his buggy.

Evan. Evan. Evan. I love the sound of his name. I love to write it. Evan, so strong and solid. I will dream of him.

20 November 1859

I wish to talk to you, Kone. Why is this happening to us? I want to know where you come from. What strange time? I feel it is so, but how can this be? I wish you were here to answer my questions. How is it you are reading my words? How is it that I believe you are reading my words?

I feel melancholy today. What shall I do? It pleases me to kiss Evan, to feel his arms around me, to have him touch my face, my neck. Is this wrong, Kone? Am I a shameless hussy?

I have talked to Mama, but she tells me only that I must please myself.

Why do I have such desires if it is wrong to enjoy them? To want more?

I would die before speaking with Papa of such things. And Pastor Brickton would condemn me to damnation for my thoughts. Annabelle is happy for me, but sad for herself, she still pines for Evan. Even though she would never say the words to me, I can see the pain in her eyes when I talk of him. You are my only confidant. Think of me.

23 January 1860

We had dinner at Judge Anderson's on Christmas Eve. A week later we attended a performance by a traveling singing troupe. Next week we will see a play, every presentation has been sold out, but Evan knows one of the actors and was able to obtain tickets and an invitation to the cast party afterward.

Yesterday, we went for a walk. It was snowing on top of the layers that already cover the roads and ground. We came upon some children sliding down a hill in a field. They were riding in a tin tub and a door taken from some shed or perhaps an outbuilding. Seeing my delight, Evan asked one of the boys if we could take a turn. We sat in the center of the door being guided by one of the older children. The rushing air tore at my bonnet and made my face flush. I screamed and laughed in turn. It was such great fun.

Connie smiled. What would her soul mate from the past think of the modern day roller coaster?

2 February 1860

The play was fine entertainment. I laughed until tears streaked my face. Evan has a good laugh, so deep and manly.

The entries through the spring listed events the couple attended together. Connie skimmed over them looking for changes in the wedding plans.

21 April 1860

Have you carnivals in your time? Games of chance, tents with the freaks of the world, fortune tellers, inspiring music, and wonderful shows of magic. Evan dared me to have my fortune read. A very old woman wearing colorful flowing robes and many strings of beads sat at a small table. I sat across from her as she looked into a glass ball and chanted while her hand circled slowly over the table. She told me of travel, a husband, and many children. I thought it a very pleasant game and turned to say as much to Evan, when she asked me a question. ‘Do you know the name Kone?’ My heart stopped. I looked at her in wonder. I shook my head for I could not speak. The game was no longer a game.

Connie reread the passage several times before continuing.

12 May 1860

Evan wants to introduce me to his friends in Washington. Lacy will go as my companion, to guard my reputation. Dinner with a senator and his wife, friends of Evan's father is planned. His name is Jefferson Davis, and he is from Mississippi and a very powerful man. While Evan takes care of some business, Lacy and I will be escorted to the shops where the fine ladies of the government purchase their dresses and bonnets. I have heard these shops that sell ready-made clothes. I will buy Mama a bonnet to wear to church.

28 May 1860

We leave tomorrow. My trunk has been packed for several days. A wagon will take us to the train. We will return in five days time.

7 June 1860

Washington is grand. We saw the great halls were the government meet. All the fine gentlemen and their ladies. The women wear dresses of the best fabric and make. Evan gave Lacy instructions to see that I purchased a new gown. I selected a royal blue, the bodice more revealing than Mama would allow. I feel a woman in it. I believe it took Evan's breath away when he saw me. He was pleased. I wore the new gown when Evan took me to see a play at the Ford Theater. Can any other city be so perfect?

23 June 1860

We have started preparing the wedding food. Elsie and Henry Brewster will come from Richmond. They will arrive on the first and stay in the home Evan has built for us, until the marriage. They will return to Richmond after the service. Mama and Lacy are preparing a party to welcome them. I will wear the royal blue dress. Papa is looking forward to seeing Mr. Brewster again, why I cannot imagine, they seemed to always argue.

Connie tried to understand. If the wedding came off as planned and Victoria left later, how could Evan remarry? Divorce was rare, but not unheard of. The reason for it had to powerful. She turned the page and read on.

2 July 1860

After the party Evan took me to the sitting room, away from the remaining guests. He kissed me tenderly; his lips set me on fire. His arms wrapped around me and drew me into his embrace. I was lost in him, my head spun. I breathed in the familiar scents. I never wanted to let him go. I could feel him quiver as he groaned into my hair. I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted to feel the warmth of his breath in my mouth. Slowly he released me leaned down and to my disappointment, kissed my forehead. He said, ‘I must go for your good and my own.’ It is less than a week till we marry. I will count each day.

Connie marked her place and stood to stretch her legs.

In the nineteenth century, a wedding was a major social event. Food preparation alone took weeks. The bride's wedding dress had to be prepared. She usually wore a favorite gown that she might bleach white, and add lace and ribbon. If she didn't want the dress to be bleached she could add a white wedding hat with lace to match the dress.

"Kone, you have come.” Victoria sat in the armchair with a sewing basket on the floor and a pile of white material on her lap.

"It would seem I have.” Connie had been so deep in thought that she hadn't noticed the mist.

"I am sewing ribbon to my wedding dress.” She stood and held up the white gown, shaking out the folds. Pink and white bows trimmed the cuffs of the puffy sleeves and the low cut bodice.

"It's beautiful, Victoria, and you will be a beautiful bride.” Connie tried not to show her doubts.

"Our vows will be spoken in the parlor. Will you try to be with me on that day?"

Connie looked at the younger woman's anxious face. “You don't really know me. Why...?"

Victoria stood and put the dress on the chair before answering Connie. “This is only the fourth time I have seen you, and only the third that I have spoken to you, yet I have never felt a kinship such as ours except with my mother. I have written many letters to you in my journal. I only regret that you cannot answer them. You are a friend. A special friend and I would like to have you near on the happiest day of my life."

Connie felt tears of frustration well up. “I will try, but I have no control over when I come to you."

"But you will try. I will watch for you. We will say our wedding vows in the afternoon. Will you stand up with me?” Stopping Connie's obvious objection with a wave of her hand, Victoria finished. “Elizabeth Ann and Maxi will witness our marriage. I want you to be next to me. It will make me happy to have you close, and no one else will know."

Finding it hard to talk, Connie nodded. “I'll really try to be here,” she choked out the words. She didn't know how, but she would try.

As the mist began to thicken, Connie held up her hand. “I'm leaving, Victoria. If I miss the ceremony, please know that I wish you happiness and good fortune."

Connie swayed, reaching for support as the room spun around her. Her hand found one of the canopy columns.

I prefer to have Brian hold me.

Hearing the rustle of paper under her feet, Connie realized that she was standing on the charcoal rubbings. Gingerly stepping across them she sat on the edge of the bed.

An invitation to a wedding held over a century ago, and it was one she knew she would try to attend, if it really took place.

The cloud darkened slowly fading as if it was never there. Kone was gone. Victoria was alone again. Was Kone the spirit of Evangeline, her dear dead sister?

It makes no difference who she is or where she comes from. She will be by my side as I make my vow to Evan and he to me.

Not for the first time, Victoria felt the stir of doubt. Would she be able to make Evan happy? Would she be a proper hostess to his important friends? But these weren't the things she feared most. There is the bedchamber...

Even at sixteen, Victoria knew she was a better seamstress or cook than many older women. She learned to put up fruit and vegetables as soon as she was tall enough to see over the table. She helped Lacy make the house bread every week. And they worked together on the laundry, and made lye soap twice a year. She kept the house accounts, under her mother's supervision, and did the shopping. Victoria knew she was able to run the house. It was the unknown that frightened her.

A soft tap on the door and her mother's voice interrupted her thoughts. “Victoria, Evan is in the parlor."

"I'll be right down.” It was too late for tea and too early for supper. Try as she might, Victoria couldn't remember if Evan had spoken of this visit. It mattered not; perhaps he wanted to be near her as much as she wanted to be with him. That final thought spurred her to smooth her dress and check her hair before going to meet her beloved.

The teenager wore a pink dress with a high neckline and fitted bodice. The long skirt covered her shoes. She carried a white book. She faded to be replaced by an older version of the same girl, almost a woman, dressed in a royal blue gown, perhaps preparing for an evening out with a male companion. Again the vision faded to be replaced by a young woman mature beyond her years. Her dress of rough cloth and dull color fit the task she was bent on. She leaned over a low cot bearing the body of a man. Her skilled fingers removed a cloth bandage and washed the open wound, covering it again with fresh strips of material. When she turned toward Connie, she was the old woman from the bus. A smile cracked the wrinkled face. Her mouth moved, but the air was silent. Connie didn't have to hear the words in her ears, she heard them.

"Learn from the past. Trust your heart. Be happy."

The old woman vanished.

Was she tripping? Was she lost in the misty fog of time? No, not this time, this time she was sleeping. Brian was near. Yes, she was safe.

Waking from the dream, Connie held onto the threads of its memory. Victoria. She was in the dream. No, she was the dream. Connie opened her eyes as she realized that she had seen the stages of Victoria's life, from teenager to old woman. She was the old woman on the bus, a spirit, like Harvey at the church. She had forgotten her until now.

A ghost? Why not? She traveled through time. Wasn't that what she was to the past? A spirit from another time?

So Victoria would live to a very old age.

Connie swung her legs over the side of the bed. The journal slid from her lap where she had left it when she'd dozed. Catching a glimpse of the alarm she saw that it was only a few minutes before five. A lot had happened in the hour since Brian left.

"Are you there?” Connie knocked on the open connecting door.

Brian stepped into the bathroom almost at once. “What's happened?” He quickly went to her, looking both ways around the room cluttered with papers.

"I tripped and had a dream. I think it was more than a dream ... well let me tell you about it. I want to know what you think."

They were still sitting on the sofa, deep in conversation when Val called up the stairs that supper was being served.

"How will you go back for the wedding?” Brian asked as they walked through the parlor.

"I don't know. Maybe Joe will have some ideas."

"Concentrating might be enough, especially if Victoria thought about you at the same time—can't hurt to try.” Joe took a sip of his coffee before putting his cup on the table between the two facing sofas.

"I may not have the chance to tell her.” Connie turned the ring on her finger as she tried to think of a possible solution. It was a “catch twenty-two". She needed to go into the past to tell Victoria to help her go into the past. “I'll have to try it without her."

"My guess is that next to her new husband, you'll be first on her mind, and since a new bride in any age needs a lot of support, you might even come before the groom,” Tracey offered.

"If you can pull this off, maybe you'll be able to find a way to control the return, too.” Brian reached for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Connie could hear the voices of her friends through the gathering mist. “I'm here Connie, don't worry, I'll stay with you.” Brian said.

"That was fast...” Tracey's voice was lost in the void.

"Does it alwa...” Joe's words trailed in time.

Connie saw Victoria leaning against the front door, her hands pressed to her face. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

"Your father...” Connie started to suggest hearing voices coming from the doctor's waiting room.

"NO! No one can see me.” Victoria's wide eyes, red and brimming with tears searched the hall as she put a hand on the wall to steady herself. She moved toward the steps, her whispered words interrupted by gasping sobs. “Mama ... kitchen. Maxi ... out.... to my room."

Once they were behind the closed door, Connie moved close to Victoria. She wanted to hold her, but knew she couldn't. “I'm glad I'm able to come to you. Are you hurt? Tell me what happened.” Connie waited till Victoria could talk.

Going to the wash basin, Victoria poured some water and pressed a damp cloth to her face before turning back toward Connie. She was pale except for the red marks that looked suspiciously like a hand print on the left side of her face. Sitting on the armchair, she pulled her feet up under her dress, and clutching her shawl tightly at her throat.

"I am destroyed.” The rest of her words were lost in a new siege of sobbing.

"Tell me from the beginning.” Connie knew that it was the same day in Victoria's time as their previous visit. The wedding gown was still on the bed.

"After you left. Mama came to tell me that Evan was in the parlor. I was excited to see him. We have been surrounded by family and friends and do not see each other except for a few stolen moments.

"He wanted me to accompany him to his house, the one that is ... was to be our home. His mother is helping the servants prepare it ... and he wanted me to see what they have done.

"'We have no chaperone.’ I said, ‘and it is unseemly for a young lady to be with a gentleman alone.'

"'Even one that you intend to marry?’ he asked.

"He said if that was my only concern, I need not worry as his mother and father were at the house and would protect my honor.

"I went with him, as I could find no argument against this. Perhaps I did not want to argue against it.” Victoria blew her nose and took a deep breath before continuing.

"It wasn't until he stood that I realized he had been drinking. He has never before come to see me in this state. I do not know why Mama allowed him in the house in that condition.

"I felt like a fool for not trusting him. After all, I knew he loved me. I will soon be Evan's wife; he would see that no harm came to me."

Connie's jaw worked, grinding her teeth together as she tried to keep her rage in check. He hit her! That much she knew; what else did he do to her? She might be wrong, but she didn't think she was. She reached to touch the damp cheek. Her fingers brushed errand strands of hair from the hot flesh like a soft breeze.

"I'm glad you are here, Kone. I can tell no one else. No one.” With a sigh, Victoria clung to her shawl. She kept her eyes downcast.

"His parents were not in the house. He pretended to be surprised, only remembering, then that they were visiting with old friends across the river and wouldn't be back until late. None of the servants live in.

"When I asked him to take me home, he laughed and took hold of my arm, bruising it I'm sure.

"'Come, my bride. You want to see the home I have built for you. We will see it now and I will take you to your father when we are finished.’ I hardly had a choice. With his fingers digging into my flesh, I could not pull free. He found my efforts comical."

Standing, Victoria walked to the open window and stared at the scene below. When she spoke again her words were garbled by renewed tears. “He insisted that I see the master bedroom. I refused. He would have none of it. He carried me ... over his shoulder like some ... some street trollop. I kicked and shouted, calling him all the black, vile names that I could think of, commanding him to release me at once.

"When he put me on my feet, next to the bed I ... I slapped him. Without hesitation he drew back his hand and slapped me as well. I was spun around on my heels and ended in a heap on the floor.

"He knelt beside me. I thought he would beg my forgiveness and assist me to my feet. Instead, he lifted me to the bed and fell on top of me.

"He said that I had teased him far too long and he would not wait another night to reap the fruits of his labor. He would have me."

Victoria's next words were so soft Connie couldn't hear them. “I didn't hear you,” she said.

Turning, Victoria's dark blue eyes swam with the gold sparks of anger, she repeated her last words.

"And he took me."

Ignoring the others, Brian quickly stood and followed Connie. After pausing at the front door for a few seconds, the cloud she was in moved up the stairs. Brian stayed close behind.

"Is this what it's like when I trip?” Joe asked Tracey while he watched the misty cloud glide across the room into the hall.

"Yeah, but you don't disappear that fast. You kinda fade out real slow.” Tracey stood to follow Brian.

"Brian, can we come with you?” Tracey asked softly.

Irritated by the distraction, Brian started to say no, but changed his mind. Joe and Tracey were the only other people who could possibly help them find answers to their questions.

"Sure, come on, I think she's going to her room.” The cloud had reached the top of the steps and moved toward the door of Connie's room, disappearing into its interior.

Inside, Tracey and Joe stood out of the way near the bathroom talking in low whispers to each other. Brian stood near the armchair behind the bubble of mist trying to hear Connie's words. Only a few made the trip back through time undistorted.

I would feel better if I could hear what's going on. She's been gone close to twenty minutes. Something must be wrong with Victoria. Maybe she's finding out that the wedding has been called off.

"Tracey, can you hear Joe when he's tripping?” Brian asked at the couple, never taking his eyes off of Connie, or rather the bubble that contained Connie.

"Only occasional words. If he wants to say something to me he enunciates clearly and talks loudly. We've develop a code made up of short sentences and single words to communicate."

"I only hear part of what Tracey says, so the code works both ways,” Joe added.

Brian nodded without turning. “We'll talk to you later about the code, right now I think she's coming back.” The haze began to swirl and cloud up. When it grew dark, Brian was ready to catch Connie if she should fall.

That night his dreams were of ghostly figures seen only in pictures, and words spoken years before, or maybe yesterday. Who was the young woman who stood on the edge of his subconscious? Victoria? Connie was there, of course, just out of his reach. He saw the woman go to Connie. She stood holding her hands for a brief time before disappearing. Only a frightened Connie remained. She fought the misty nothing, calling his name, pleading for his help. He struggled to reach her.

Brian woke, his body covered with sweat. Disentangling himself from the sheet, he went to the bathroom. Quietly pulling the door to Connie's room closed he ran cold water and washed his face. Turning off the tap, he pushed the door open again.

The room was filled with early morning shadows. It would be another hour before the sun came up, but the moon was still hovering above them. A bulge on the bed reassured Brian that Connie was still in the twentieth century.

Slipping quietly into the room, he went to the armchair and sat down.

"Can you tell me about it?” Brian had asked. Tracey and Joe had gone back to their own rooms after making sure Connie had returned safely. She and Brian were alone facing each other from opposite ends of the sofa.

"He was drunk.” Her voice was quiet, tears rolled down her cheeks. “There's no excuse for what he did, but I didn't think he would ... he raped her. Victoria has been hurt. Not just physically, but her trust in this man is destroyed. I thought that would explain why she doesn't marry him, but Victoria plans on going through with the wedding. I asked her why. She said perhaps he is right and he should be able to bed the woman he is to marry, especially if she is a hussy and teases him beyond endurance."

A burst of angry outrage made Connie's eyes as dark as thunder clouds. “Men have not changed. They still use the same lines and think they have the ‘right’ to take what is denied to them."

Brian's concern was not for Victoria, but for Connie. She was as distraught as if it had been her who had been attacked. Moving across the space between them, he took her hands in his.

She resisted shaking her head. “No, I'm okay. I just need to..."

"You're not okay. You comforted Victoria. Now it's your turn to be comforted.” He waited for her to stop fighting him. “Let me do that for you."

"You've done more than you know just by being here,” Connie said.

He held her face in his hands. The urge to kiss the tears away was almost overwhelming. He brushed hair from her forehead before gently pulling her into his arms.

When she had calmed down, Brian gave her some privacy to change, but returned to make sure she was all right. He waited for her to fall asleep before returning to his room. Sleeping lightly, he woke when Connie thrashed or talked in her sleep. Each time he went to her and sat on the bed and waited for her to drift into another dream, thinking each time maybe this one would be of happiness.

There had been many dreams. It was dawn. Finally Connie was sleeping soundly. Maybe she could get the rest she needed.

Sitting next to her, Brian leaned against the headboard, watching her breathe.

Tuesday

The soft strains of a country-western ballad slowly woke Connie. Pressing her tender eyelids tight, she tried in vain to prolong sleep. The sad memory of Victoria's pain intruded.

Giving up the pretense of getting more rest, Connie pulled herself upright, turned off the alarm, and leaned against the headboard. She remembered the feel of Brian's arms around her, comforting her, waiting for her to get into bed, and sitting next to her until she had gone to sleep.

Waking many times during the night, sometimes sobbing, sometimes with cries of fright, Connie always found Brian nearby. Without a word he came to the bed and sat next to her holding her hand until she drifted back into her unsettled sleep.

Connie felt the sheets next to her, waking Brian with a start. “What's happened?” He sat up and looked around the sunny room.

"I believe we spent the night together.” Connie smiled, pleased to find him near.

"So we did, most of it anyway.” Brian stood and stretched his arms high over his head, his fingers nearly reaching the ceiling. “Do you feel like taking that trip to Chatham? We can cancel and sleep in."

"As tempting as that sounds, I have work to do. The trip's on; that is if you're able to go. You look bushed. Did you get any sleep?"

"I'll be okay. All I need is a hot shower, a good breakfast and a couple of pots of strong coffee."

"I would toss you for the shower, but I'm afraid I would win, then I would feel guilty. You shower and I'll write my notes on last night's adventure.” Connie swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Just let me use the facilities first."

Her short hair still damp, Connie could smell the strong chicory coffee as she hurried down the narrow steps. The aroma of fresh baked biscuits made her mouth water. But first the coffee.

"So that's why you didn't answer when I knocked on the door. I thought you had fallen asleep and I would be on my own today after all.” Her pleasure was obvious at finding Brian waiting.

Looking up from the newspaper he was reading, Brian smiled as he reached for his cup of cream laden coffee. “Couldn't go without you.” The results of his night's vigil were clearly etched in the weariness on his face. “How are you feeling?"

"Tired, and ready to get away from all this for a while. Just let me get a couple of cups of coffee and something to eat first.” To emphasize her words, Connie filled a cup and sat down.

Brian offered her a section of the local newspaper. Accepting it, she barely glanced at the words, her mind deep in the past. They ate in comfortable silence.

Pushing her chair back, Connie picked up her bag and sun hat. “I'm ready whenever you are.” She walked toward the open doorway.

"The car is in back. Let's go out through the kitchen.” Brian settled the heavy camera bag on his shoulder.

Brian concentrated on the traffic, while Connie pointed out the changes in the landscape over the last hundred and forty years.

After entering the crowded parking area, Brian skillfully pulled into a narrow space, edging out a station wagon full of excited children. “He wouldn't be able to get that monster into that space anyway,” Connie commented as the balding man behind the wheel scowled in their direction.

"I know that, and you know that; but I don't think he knows that.” Brian smiled after the departing vehicle. “Come on. Let's try to catch the morning light bouncing off of those hills. The Union encampments were along the river. Chatham is that way.” He pointed south-east of where they stood. “It's just a short walk."

"Lead the way. I'll bring up the rear.” Connie felt free of the B&B's haunting presence. The strange peace made her want to run toward the hills beyond and wallow in their serenity. She would settle for feeling the hot sun on her bare arms, and the gentle breeze from the river moving her curls with tender care.

Brian put her to work, handing him his equipment and trying to keep the throngs of tourists back while he took his shots of the historic mansion and the surrounding area. Connie forgot the problems of the past and found joy in the company of the present. She laughed at his feeble attempt to tell jokes, smiling in turn when he laughed at hers.

He caught the countryside and its buildings on film, until the sun had climbed to stand directly overhead. “I think we can take a break now. It's a good time to catch some lunch and tour the inside. I'll be able to get some shots of the city this afternoon."

"I would like to see the area south of here. I haven't seen any re-enactors but that would be a good area for an encampment."

"You might be disappointed. I don't think there are any groups here right now.” Brian picked his way across the uneven ground. He held out his hand to Connie, offering to assist her over a narrow ditch. He knew she could manage herself, but hoped she would accept. Their hands came together. She stepped over the opening and released her hold. Brian still gripped the long slender hand. Startled, Connie looked into his eyes. They were tender with caring. She returned his smile and fed her fingers through his.

They entered the historic building that had, at various times, housed the commands and hospitals of both the North and the South. The signs of destruction remained.

Running her free hand over the scarred wall, Connie smelled the mix of horses and gunpowder. She saw the outlines of soldiers hurrying in and out the front door, heard commands being shouted, and the screams of the wounded and dying. She could feel the chill of a wet winter rain pounding the hard ground outside. Her shoulders shook with the chill.

"You can't be cold. It has to be over ninety degrees in here.” Brian's voice seemed to come from far away. Connie swayed, reaching for support. Brian held her. “Let's go outside. It's close in here."

Back in the trampled yard, Connie's head started to clear. “I'm all right, maybe it was the heat, but I thought ... but it couldn't be.

"What? That you were tripping? I know it's no comfort, but I thought you might be getting ready to leave, too."

"It doesn't fit. I always go back to Victoria. The soldiers I saw were in the Union army. What would she be doing here?” Connie suddenly felt the full extent of her restless night. “Let's get something to drink. I need to sit down for a while."

"And eat. We didn't have much of a breakfast,” Brian said.

They walked to an open snack bar surrounded by a wood deck. Small metal tables protected by umbrellas filled the area in front, the sides held long wooden tables with benches. He led her to one of the small tables being vacated by a family of three.

"What would you like?” he asked as he made a futile attempt to wipe the table with a napkin.

"Something hot, a chocolate, tea, or coffee.” She rubbed her arms against an inner chill, what she had experienced was more than the heat, or being tired, or lack of food, and they both knew it.

A fleeting frown marred Brian's handsome face, as he headed for the sign hanging over the snack bar counter, “Place orders here".

Connie moved her metal chair into the sun, turning her face to its brilliance. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the warming rays.

"I leave you for a few minutes and you fall asleep. What does that say for my company?"

Hearing his voice made her smile. Shifting in the hard chair Connie moved closer to the table and the steaming Styrofoam cup waiting for her. “It says a lot. I'm fully awake while you're here, but I fall asleep the minute you walk away."

"Good recovery.” Brian nodded with the mock satisfaction of a stroked ego. “Here, I got some sandwiches and chips. The fries looked pretty greasy so did the burgers. These are ham and cheese. It should hold us till be can get some real food."

Taking a tentative sip from the cup, Connie heard rumbling in her stomach. “I didn't realize how hungry I am. This looks great.” Selecting one of the sandwiches from the small orange tray, she removed the wrapper.

Only hearing the sound of Brian's voice, but not taking in the words, Connie nodded and smiled at times that seemed appropriate. She was lost in her own thoughts. Why had she felt a presence so strongly in the battered mansion? Victoria may have been to the house at some time in her life, but it was unlikely during the Union occupation. Yet, she was sure she had started to trip, and so was Brian.

"...think I'm being ignored. Even if it is by a beautiful woman, I don't like it."

Smiling at his pointed comment, Connie fluttered her eyelashes coyly. “I'm so sorry, but your extreme good looks have distracted me from your intellect. I do beg your pardon."

Brian laughed at her false flattery. “How can I resist? Of course, you're pardoned ... but only if you make a more determined effort to enjoy yourself."

"My friend, I am enjoying myself, thanks to you. But we had better get a move on, or you won't get the rest of your pictures."

Brian shot roll after roll of film over the next few hours. “I'm losing the light. I might as well call it a day.” Covering the lens of the camera, he packed his equipment. “Let's take this stuff back to the car and drive down river. We can look for an encampment."

There didn't seem to be any. The only inhabitants were park rangers and other tourists. Brian and Connie had walked beyond the commotion being made by a group of children and entered a quiet and empty wooded area.

Turning to voice her disappointment, Connie was startled to see Brian slowly disappear as fog surrounded her. No, I can't trip here. This was the Union camp. Panic gripped her. “Brian, what's happening?” She knew, but how? Why? “Victoria didn't come to this side of the river during the war. She couldn't have.” Turning back to look down at the surging river, Connie saw the season had changed, it was winter again. A light rain mixed with snow fell on the already frozen ground. The riverbank bore signs of past snows and freezing rain.

She wasn't alone. Connie followed the sound of voices coming from the gloom ahead. The light from a flickering campfire beckoned. As she drew nearer she was able to make out words.

"...boots are nothing but holes..."

"...one more piece of hardtack, and I won't have any teeth left."

"...any coffee in that pot?"

"What's that? Over there, on the wood's edge."

The last question startled Connie. The soldier asking the question was pointing at her. Quickly she looked around, she was alone.

"Stand and be recognized. Who are ya?” Raising his rifle, the young man pointed it at her.

The others around the fire stopped complaining and turned to see the intruder.

"What do you see, Andrew? A deer, or horse, maybe a fox or rabbit?"

"I don't see a thing. Not a man or beast."

A chorus of remarks filled the tense air.

"Come on, boy, sit and drink some coffee. Ya haven't been downin’ a bit of whiskey have you? Cause if you have, I wouldn't mind at all havin’ a pull at that bottle myself."

"I'm not drunk. And I'm not dreaming. I see someone standin’ over by the road.” Squinting as he strained to see through the dim light beyond the campsite, Andrew stepped outside the circle of his comrades.

"Go on with ya then. Hunt for your ghosts, but if you're not back in time for the rabbit stew ... well I ain't goin’ save ya any, that's fer sure.” A burly man leaned over and moved a stick around inside a metal pot sitting on rocks in the edge of the fire. “Smellin’ pretty good, ‘bout now, so don't be goin’ too far."

The solder walked toward Connie, his rifle pointed at her. She could see the brass on his blue uniform and the grime on his face and hands. “How did you get through the picket? Who are you? What do you want here?” He turned his head slightly to the side, but his eyes never left hers.

"It's a woman,” he shouted over his shoulder. “And she ain't wearin’ but some scraps of clothes."

"Tell her to come join us,” the burly private yelled back. “Could use some help with this stew."

"Well speak up,” the corporal said to Connie. “I won't hurt you, if you have a good reason for being here.” As if to strengthen his words, he lowered his rifle.

"I don't know what I'm doing here,” Connie whispered. Her eyes were glued to the young man. Have I seen him before? Why can he see me? I have seen him somewhere, but where? Pictures salvaged from the Civil War and published in books, magazines and on the Internet paraded through Connie's mind as she tried to put this soldier in the correct mental slot.

"Are you lost? Must be ... are you from across the river? You do dress strange over there. Pants on a lady, and short ones at that. Come by the fire and get warm. You're shakin’ like a leaf. Not even a coat.” His words hung in the air. Andrew leaned forward and reached toward Connie.

She stood still, her arms wrapped across her chest against the cold.

As his finger touched her arm, his hand withdrew quickly. “Well you're real enough. But where are you from? Why are you here? Are you a spy? Speak or I will have to take action."

"I'm not a spy. I don't know why I'm here...” Connie searched for reason.

Unnoticed by either of them, a burly private had left his post next to the stew pot, and now stood behind the younger man. He was shorter than the Corporal and broader. His nose had been broken and his face scarred. His hairy hand slapped down on the slender shoulder startling both Connie and Andrew. “Ain't nothin’ out here worth lookin’ at, lad. Come on back to the fire, stews done and waitin’ to be et. With your pretty face, if a woman does come by she won't be going any further."

"What's wrong with you man? Don't you see her? She's standing right there in front of you.” The angry words were emphasized by sharp jerks to rid him of the unwanted restraining hand.

"Andrew, come on, you're worrin’ me. There's nothin’ here."

The corporal swung around to confront his friend. Connie could see that he was trying to control his emotions. “Go back to the fire. I'll be there in a bit.” He encouraged the other man to leave. “I said I'll be along.” When the big man started to turn, Andrew tried to sound cheerful, “And you better save me some of that stew, or the next pot we boil will have you in it."

When they were alone again, he turned back. “I don't know who or what you are, but you better mean no harm to my men, or it will be the last harm you cause."

Shaking her head Connie tried to assure him. “I mean you no harm. I don't know how I got here.” She tried to make him understand. “Who are you?” As the question formed, Connie felt herself slipping away. The soldiers and their camp faded like an old photograph, the trees spun around her.

"What did you see? Maybe that's a clue as to why?” Brian asked.

They were in car. The windows open to let the late afternoon air cool the hot interior.

"I told you what happened. I saw a camp and one of the soldiers saw me, we talked. He was a corporal and his first name was Andrew. I don't know why, Brian. Anymore than I know why Victoria sees me. There must be a connection, and I think I need to find out what it is. It's the key to this whole thing.” Connie loudly protested the latest “trip".

"It didn't follow the ‘rules'. Why would a Union Corporal be able to see me? How did he pull me back? I have no control at all. I am at the whim of ... of what? Time? The past? Whatever it is that's pushing me around. And I don't like it one little bit.” Her anger dissolved into tears. She hit her fist against her leg.

Brian caught her hand and pulled her toward him, holding her trembling body against his. She was scared to death, and who wouldn't be.

There's only one thing to do. He had to get her away from here. But how? She had already said that she doesn't want to leave—no she said that she couldn't leave until she knows why she goes back into time.

Connie drifted off into a restless sleep while Brian worked his way through the lines of tourist's cars leaving the park. He drove in silence, occasionally glancing at her. Even in sleep her brow was furrowed. He wanted to reach over and smooth away the strain, erase the worry.

He'd never felt quite like this about anyone before, other than family. He hated seeing her always worried and pale. Today had been great, right up to the unexpected trip. Connie was special and he didn't want to lose her before they had a chance to really know each other. He had to do something—and he knew just what to do.

Connie moaned, and shook her head from side to side as she slept. She mumbled to people only she could see, the words unclear.

Brian's grip on the steering wheel relaxed as he put miles behind them. He drove in the far right lane allowing the traffic to whiz by. Was he doing the right thing? He looked again at Connie. Yes. There was no choice. He had to get her away from that town.

They drove north, away from Fredericksburg. Brian started to watch the signs. They would stop somewhere for the night. He would go back to the B & B and pack their things, but first they would find a place to eat. In the morning he would take Connie home.

"Louie's Subs, best in the East,” “Big Bass Truck Stop, next exit,” “Shipwreck Diner, seafood our specialty, take next exit, only ten miles to Fredericksburg” ... the billboards slipped by.

It couldn't be, Brian thought, he was heading north. They should be nearing Washington. Maybe the sign was put on the wrong side of the road. He watched for road markers. Seeing an emergency pull-over area ahead, he slowed as he pulled onto the wide gravel shoulder. Had the last two mile-markers been wrong too? Or were they headed south? Damn it ... it couldn't be! His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel; his jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

Stepping out of the car, Brian looked toward the sun. It was low in the sky on his right. He was heading south.

Ice ran through his veins. His head throbbed. How did he get turned around? There's no way! Something ... some forces were at work that wouldn't be denied.

Returning to the car, Brian tried to stop his hands from shaking as he put them on the steering wheel. He used his shirt tail to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

"Where are we?” Connie asked with a yawn. “Why have we stopped? Are we home?"

"Apparently we're ten miles north of Fredericksburg.” Gritting his teeth, Brian put the car into gear and eased it into the traffic.

There's no choice but to go back—back into the Twilight Zone. No, that's not right, he never left it. IT wouldn't allow them to go.

"What do you mean we're ten miles north of Fredericksburg?” Connie looked out the window at the passing scenery, the office buildings cropping up among the trees, new housing developments to house the workers for the new industry. “What are we doing here? Where were you going? To supper? There are a lot of nice restaurants near Fredericksburg. Why would you want to go so far?"

Brian was quiet, but Connie could see his jaw working as he ground his teeth together. Was he angry?

"Brian, what's going on?” What could have happened in the short time since they left the park?

"I don't know.” He bit the words off, keeping his eyes on the fast moving cars around him. “I wanted to take you away. To make sure that you're safe. That's all. But ... well you can see we're headed right back."

"What are you talking about? You wanted to take me where?"

Brian didn't answer.

"Stop at the next service area, or restaurant or motel, anywhere ... but stop. Now. We have to talk.” She watched until he nodded, then sat back rubbing her arms. Why was she so cold?

Brian and Connie sat in a booth near the kitchen. Dark walls on three sides gave them privacy even though a steady stream of servers and bus boys passed nearby.

Connie waited until the waiter brought their coffee before asking Brian again. “Where were you taking me?"

"Away. Away from Fredericksburg. Home, to Pennsylvania I guess.” Brian held the coffee cup between his hands. He seemed to be concentrating on the dark liquid and refused to look at her.

"Something—something turned us around.” He stopped to sip his drink, gripping the mug tight to still the shaking of his hands. “I didn't ... I started seeing signs that said we were headed back toward Fredericksburg."

"Are you sure you didn't pull over for some reason and got back on the highway going south?” Watching the slow shake of his head, Connie tried to make sense of what Brian was saying.

"No, I didn't stop after leaving Chatham. Once we were far enough away, I planned on getting you a room somewhere while I went back to get the rest of our things."

"You were kidnapping me."

Brian's head jerked up. “No, not kidnapping ... I guess I thought I was rescuing—"

"From what?” Connie snapped. “You had no right..."

"I was ju—"

"You didn't ask if I wanted to leave. What right do you have to make that assumption?"

They sat quietly as the waiter brought a small loaf of bread on a cutting board and a bowl of wrapped butter pats, placing them on the end of their table.

"I only wanted to protect you. After this afternoon ... you were so upset ... what was I suppose to do? Just calmly take you back to that house?” Brian pushed his cup away and sat back in the wide vinyl covered bench, with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You should have asked me. Maybe I want to go back to ‘that house'.” Connie didn't try to hide her anger. It was Phillip all over again. “What is it with men? Evan, you and Phi—All of you. I trusted you. You have to control everything and everyone around you. Yes, the house scares me, and yes, traveling in time scares me, but I have to do it. And yes, I guess in a way, I want to do it."

With a deep sigh Brian seemed to give up the argument. “I'm sorry. You were afraid. I thought I was helping. I won't take you anywhere again without asking you. In case you haven't noticed, it didn't work. We are going back to Fredericksburg and that wasn't my choice.” Brian leaned forward and wrapped one large hand around his mug, without another word he drank the remaining coffee.

...wasn't my choice. The words echoed in Connie's head. Maybe Brian was right and they should try to ... but he did try.

Neither spoke as the waiter put their order on the table, nor while they ate. Connie couldn't remember if she ever ate food with less taste.

The ride home was quiet. The sound of the tires singing on the macadam road emphasized the words in Connie's head. ... wasn't my choice.... wasn't my choice.... wasn't my choice.

As soon as they stopped in the parking lot behind Fraiser's Rest, Connie grabbed her bags and left the car without looking at its unhappy driver. Entering through the back door, she headed for the stairs, ignoring Val's greeting.

Connie threw her purse and bag on the bed and went to the windows. She fought back tears of frustration. How could he do it? She'd really thought he was special. Turning on her heels, Connie looked around the room. Everything was closing in.

I have to get out of here for a while; it's too close, and ... She couldn't talk to Brian just yet.

She put the journal in the small canvas bag and left the B&B by the front door in search of a quiet place to read. She found it in a small park nearby. Usually crowded with tourists and children, the park was almost empty. Everyone was resting from a long day of touring or getting ready for the evenings activities. Selecting a bench in the shade, Connie opened the journal and tried to forget Brian.

5 July 1860

I wish you could stay with me.

Connie remembered the Victoria's own broken trust and tear streaked face.

I do not expect you could, but there is a void. It may be years before I see you again, maybe minutes or maybe never. Forgive me my sadness. In this one evening, I have lost something very dear to me, my Evan, and I do not want to lose you, too. You have become my confidant. I know you will read these words someday, it is some solace.

I must marry Evan, but it will be a marriage in name only. I can no longer love him. I am obliged to tell him of my decision in private.

Touching the yellowed page, Connie thought of the tears that were shed as the words were written. Victoria full of anger and sorrow she couldn't express without being judged by society. How would she, Connie, a woman of the twentieth century, handle the trauma of being raped?

7 July 1860

My wedding will be a sad affair. My talk with Evan was not easy. He assured me of his love and promised that he would never again repeat his act of that night. My trust has been shattered. How can such violence come out of love? But where can I turn?

I hate the thought of living in that house. I will always remember the shame that was brought on me there.

8 July 1860

We, you and I, live in different worlds, with different laws. We have to each abide by those laws. Even the unwritten rules of society cannot be ignored. I fear that my body must be given in marriage, if not my heart, to Captain Brewster. It will be done to fulfill my obligation and not for love. He has killed my love. My only solace will be that I know this man does not love me, and will be living the same lie. The words fall from his lips, but his heart is blackened with lust. He will take his pleasures at whatever flesh markets will take his money and leave my bed empty.

Annabelle is at my door. It is time for the ceremony. I hope you will be by my side, but if you cannot, pray for me, my sister.

A cool breeze turned the page in the journal. Connie looked up to see shadows stretching across the small park where she sat. Connie closed her eyes and remembered the touch of Brian's hand, the feel of him holding her close and the last words she heard him say, “...wasn't my choice."

I know why you tried to take me away. You are afraid for me. So why can't I just forget it? Connie knew it was because she was afraid too, for herself and for Victoria. She had to see this through. She gathered her things and stood. She would talk to Brian and maybe they could come to an understanding.

It was a short walk to the B&B. Connie was surprised to see men in uniform standing outside the open door.

"Excuse me.” She edged past a cluster of young men. Squinting, she studied their faces and costumes. They didn't notice her standing in their midst. Slowly she turned to look across the street. Three houses looked back at her.

The wedding. It must be. These men were wedding guests. Had it already taken place? Victoria had said it would be in the afternoon, and it was now evening, so the ceremony was over.

Connie went into the house. In the parlor a group of women sipping tea and eating from plates piled high with pastries and fruit.

That won't last long. Soon they would wish they had saved some of this food for later. The dining room table was filled with platters of meats and smoked fish. The sideboard had its own burden of bowls of fresh fruits, trays of pastries filled with vegetables and sweets, puddings, glazed fruits. In the center of the sideboard was the wedding cake. Its dark, moist surface was decorated with nuts and fruit. The Brentwells had done their daughter proud. In spite of having just eaten, Connie's mouth watered at the sight and smells of the food.

Where were the newlyweds? Peeking into the kitchen, Connie saw that Lacy was directing several serving girls. The voices of men came from the carriage house yard. As they entered the kitchen, Connie watched with interest.

"You're right, sir. He's just about the best piece of horse flesh I've seen. And I fear that horses will become more scarce as this conflict builds.” The tall man who spoke had to be Evan. His mutton chop sideburns and uniform were what Connie had expected. Finally able to see him clearly and not from a distance, she saw that he had a presence. The kind of man who was felt when he entered a room. Who would suspect that he was capable of rape?

"Come, we will retire to the sitting room,” Evan said. “I've brought a special bottle for my special guests.” The group of men followed Captain Brewster; among them were the young men she had seen as she entered. They loudly made jokes and slapped him on the back.

"Well, there's the groom. Where's the bride?” Connie went up the steps. She heard voices through the closed door of the room she would use a hundred and forty years in the future.

Victoria stood at the window. Her mother and Annabelle were with her. She wore the dark royal dress Evan purchased in Washington. Pieces of lace showed evidence of having been sewn on in haste. Victoria had discarded the white dress she had carefully worked on for weeks. Sprigs of honeysuckle adorned her hair. “I'm all right Mama, I just thought..."

"Don't say again that you wanted some unknown girl to be at your wedding. All of your friends and many of my own have come. You must go down and be a proper hostess. I am sure Evan is not ignoring his guests.” Speaking with the authority that only a mother has, Prudence wet a hanky in the wash bowl and went to wipe her daughter's face. “You must stop this nonsense right now. How will you explain swollen eyes to your friends? And on your wedding day."

"You know I don't love him,” Victoria pleaded with her mother. “I don't want to see my friends."

"What do you mean you don't love Evan? You've loved him for years. And even if you didn't, your friends don't know that you don't love your husband, and they don't need to know. Goodness girl, they don't want to know. They've come to find joy and reason to celebrate.” Prudence returned the hanky to the bowl and looked at her daughter. Prudence was shorter and her hair was graying, but the resemblance to her daughter was strong. “Take a deep breath. That's it, now let's go downstairs."

"Anna...” Victoria turned toward her friend and saw Connie near the door. “...belle, would you take Mama downstairs while I touch-up my hair, and you both can tell my guests that I will join them shortly."

There were some mumbled objections but Prudence seemed satisfied that her daughter was going to do her duty and make an extended appearance. They left the room. Connie could hear them talking quietly as they descended the steps.

"They care for you,” Connie told her.

"Yes, they do,” Victoria said without taking her eyes off the closed door. “I had given up hope that you would come. When the ceremony ended and you weren't there I thought you might be here in our room. But..."

Connie moved closer to Victoria. “You know I have no control over when I will come. I've just read in the journal that it was your wedding day. I hoped to find a way, but couldn't. I'm here now. I want you to be happy, Victoria."

"Don't you know? Can't you tell me? Have I made a terrible mistake?” Victoria pleaded. “I thought that if you were here, because you know what is to be, you would tell me not to do this thing. You could tell me that I was being foolish marrying a man I don't love."

Tiny flutters in Connie's stomach grew to the flapping of bat's wings. I know so much and so little, Victoria, but I can't tell you even that.

She shook her head and said, “You have to make your own decisions. As you said in the journal, you have to live by the laws, even the unwritten social laws of your time. The choices you make must be yours. Can you see that?"

Reluctantly Victoria nodded. Holding her head held high, she started toward the door. “Thank you for coming, Connie. I will write.” She spoke without turning around, her words were lifeless.

When the door closed, the room around her began to change. Connie sat on the bed holding her arms across her chest and waited. How did she get into this? What was going to happen next? Victoria, what would become of you? Already tense from her own experience and angry at Brian, Connie started to feel the world close in on her.

When the room stopped shifting, she moved quickly, afraid she wouldn't make it to the bathroom before she threw up.

She wasn't alone.

"How long have you been here?"

Brian was sitting on the bed when she left the bathroom.

"I followed you when you came in. Joe and I were in the parlor. I saw the mist."

"Is he here, too?” She looked around quickly. She was trembling so hard that her teeth chattered.

Brian went to her, stood close and put his arm around her. “We're alone. He knew what was going on, but I told him that I could handle it."

"I just ... I don't want to answer a lot of questions. I'm sorry I'm so much trouble, things are getting so complicated.” Taking a deep breath, Connie put her hand on his encircling arm and squeezed gently. “Thanks for being here ... again."

Drawing back, Brian looked into her pale face. “Does this mean I've been forgiven?"

Nodding, Connie said, “Yes, I understand why you tried to take me away. But you have to promise not to do anything like that again. I have to see this thing through. I know it's not going to be easy, but as you said, the choice isn't mine."

Making a cross over his heart, Brian gave his word. “I can't say I like the idea, but I promise. No more attempts to abduct."

Val was clearing the supper dishes when Brian and Connie entered the dining room.

"Did we miss dessert?” Brian filled two cups with coffee, before taking a seat next to Connie. He placed one of the cups in front of her.

"Nope, just in time. You missed a great roast, though,” Joe said. “Where did you go today?"

Brian glanced at Connie before answering. “We went to Chatham. I took some promising pictures. We had a questionable lunch and Connie did some traveling."

"She what?” Joe looked from Brian to Connie. “You tripped? I didn't think you went back unless Victoria was there. Wasn't that why you went to Chatham? Did you see her?"

"No.” Connie said. “But I saw a group of Union soldiers ... and one of them saw me."

Joe's brow furrowed. “Someone besides Victoria saw you? Man, what are the chances? Did you find out who he was?"

"Just that his name is Andrew and he's a corporal. He thought I was a spy, I guess. What bothers me is how many other people from the past are able to pull me back? I could spend the rest of my life flitting back and forth in time with no control over when or where I go.” Connie drank some of the cooling coffee. “I thought that when I was able to figure out the connection to Victoria that I would be able to stop tripping and lead a normal life.” She glanced at Brian, before returning her attention to the Handleys.

"Is the trip to the battlefield still on for Thursday?"

"Sure, but do you think it's a good idea for you do go?” Tracey said.

Before Connie could answer the kitchen door swung open and Val entered. She put a plate of deep-dish apple pie in front of each guest. When she left, Connie continued.

"I think I have to go. I'm not sure that Victoria was there, but I have a strong feeling ... I can't explain it."

The pull of the battlefield was as great as her initial compulsion to come to Fredericksburg. “I would feel better knowing that all of you were with me. I feel anchored in this time when I know there's someone who knows where I am. And Joe, maybe we'll be able to go back at the same time and see each other."

"Wouldn't that be a kick? I wonder if we'll be able to talk to each other,” Joe's said with a smile that lit up his face.

"We just might find out.” Connie's stomach fluttered. She cut a piece of the pie and put it in her mouth. The apples tasted like sawdust. “Have you asked Betty about a picnic lunch?” Placing her fork on the edge of her plate, Connie looked at Tracey.

"Yes, she'll have Val pack us some sandwiches and fruit for lunch, pastries for breakfast, and coffee, ice water and sodas. Joe and I have a couple of blankets we always carry to sit on if there aren't any tables. And it looks like the weather will cooperate. We're supposed to have showers tomorrow but Thursday should be clear and warm."

"Are you still going, Brian?” Connie asked.

"Yes, I wouldn't miss it.” He smiled at Connie. “I'll get the car gassed up and check the oil and tires tomorrow. We did quite a bit of driving today,"

"Oh? Chatham's not that far. Where else did you go?” Tracey asked.

"I was Sir Galahad and tried to whisk the fair maiden to safety. But somehow we got turned around and ended up back here in Fredericksburg. Whatever forces are at work, they don't want Connie to leave until the job's done. And I didn't get permission for the ‘whisking’ so I was on the bad side of the fair maiden."

"All is forgiven, now though,” Connie assured the others. “My knight in shining armor has promised no more surprise trips."

Brian briefly put his hand over hers on the table.

"Tell me to mind my own business if I'm out of line, but something happened this evening didn't it? Brian said you were in your room, but then I thought I saw you come in the front door, or rather a cloud came through the front door.” Joe sipped iced tea and waited.

After taking another bite of the pie, this one tasted better, Connie washed it down with warm coffee. “You're not out of line, you're a friend. And I appreciate your concern. Brian didn't know that I had gone back out. I wanted to read, but the house was closing in on me, so I went to that little park a few blocks away. When I returned, things were back in time. They must have changed as I was walking, but I didn't notice right away. There had been a wedding here and I arrived during the meal that was prepared for the guests. It was beautiful, all the elaborate foods and clothing. When you saw me, I was wandering around the house. Brian followed me to the bedroom, the bride was there and I wanted to see her."

"Victoria?” Tracey asked.

Connie nodded. “She wanted me to tell her she had done the right thing. She was annoyed that I hadn't been there to stop her, or at least tell her what was going to happen in her future. I'm puzzled about the tombstones we saw Monday.” Connie looked at Brian, before continuing. “Evan Brewster is buried next to Annabelle who was his wife, and their children. There isn't any sign of Victoria in the family section of the cemetery. I thought I'd go to the library or historical society and see if I can find any old newspapers or records. I want to see if I can find anything about the other members of Victoria's family, too."

She finished her pie and drained her coffee cup then yawned. “I'm sorry, I have a lot of sleep to catch up on. I think I'll go up to bed.” She pushed the chair back, and walked to the parlor door. “You know,” she turned, “if we could pack even a little of the food on that table, left over from the reception, we could eat for a week."

After she moved into the next room, Joe's voice followed her. “It must be hard, seeing two worlds at the same time, and not always knowing which one you're in."

You bet it is. Connie climbed the steps.

The house was quiet. The others had gone to their rooms. Darkness folded Connie in its soft blanket. As she lay on the crisp sheets, fingers of cool air brushed over her. Connie thought about Victoria. On what should be one of the happiest days of her life, the nineteenth-century bride, like so many others of her time felt herself doomed to a life of service to a man she didn't love.

Connie's mind refused to rest. Pushing herself up, she went to the windows. The outside world drifted between the world she knew to exist and the one that Victoria saw. The night didn't bring her relief.

With a sigh, she turned on the reading light and found the journal.

8 July 1860

afternoon

We are married, but it is a sham. I will not share my bed with a man who prefers lustful violence to love. I am glad that you came, Kone. Your visit was a bright spot in my dreary day.

29 September 1860

I am not well. It has been several days that I have been sickened by the thought of food. Evan is concerned that I may have contracted some illness from the servants.

1 October 1860

I have confided in Mama. She sat as was her practice, at the window in the rocking chair she brought to Fredericksburg from Boston. I told her my trouble. She turned to look at me. Narrowing her eyes, she leaned forward and looked closely at my face.

"Yes, I see,” she said sitting back with a smile.

"See what,” I asked in response?

"My child, you are to have a child of your own."

"How do you know?” I was bewildered.

"I know. It's in your eyes. You are not feeling well. And you have missed at least one ‘curse'. The illness will pass. Yes, you are with child.” She looked up at me with saddened eyes. “You are but a child yourself."

Kone, I wish I could talk to you, to tell you of my joy, my distress and of my fears. I remember Evangeline, my poor little sister. At least she was born out of love. I know now that Evangeline was not of my father, but another. And I know that she was not stillborn, as Mama and Papa would have everyone believe. This child is a product of lust and drunkenness. I love Mama no matter what she has done. And this poor child has done nothing to deserve my contempt, nor will it receive anything by love from me. But what of it's father? How will Evan receive this news?

A tear rolled down Connie's cheek, Victoria was growing into a woman. She had learned about life. The lessons were hard, but they should make her strong.

I hope she's strong enough. Connie was glad she wasn't with Victoria right now. Was this how, Evan becomes a widower? How would she tell Victoria? The times were not good for bearing children or for the mothers. But if this were the case, why wasn't Victoria buried next to her mother? And how could she have been at the Blackstone Pub during the Civil War? And in the cemetery in eighteen seventy-two? She lived to be an old woman. Was she banished from Fredericksburg? Why? Victoria didn't do anything wrong ... Did she? Connie had too many questions and no answers. She put her thoughts aside and turned her attention back to the journal.

3 October 1860

Evan knows about the baby. Yesterday, after my talk with Mama, I sent a message to the farm where he is drilling the Home Guard. He spends most of his waking hours there or at his law practice. He is a successful barrister and respected citizen as well as an elder of the church. I feel my respect for Evan growing. He is a good provider. Our house is never in want. But I can not rekindle the feelings of love I once had for him.

"Husband,” I wrote, “We must speak. Will you be able to take the evening meal with me? I will wait if you are to be late. Your Wife."

James, a gift from Evan's father, returned with the reply.

"My Dear Victoria, Your request has caused me to have misgivings. Of course, I will dine with you this day. You ask so little, how can I refuse? I will be home early. Your Devoted Husband."

My heart was heavy. He is the father of my child, but he is my husband in name only. I hoped he would love the baby, and had no fear that he would care for it. With this child the bond between us will be drawn tighter?

Evan was indeed home early.

I put my mending aside and went to him.

He lifted my face with his fingers under my chin. “Well, I'm glad to see it isn't bad news, or is it?” He has learned to read my moods very well. I allowed him to kiss my cheek and helped remove his field jacket. Under the heavy coat his blouse was soaked with sweat and grimy with dust.

I called, “James,” but he had heard the door and was ready. “Heat water for the Captain's bath and see to his uniform and boots."

While Evan removed the grime from his body, I brought him fresh clothing. James sat at the necessary's door polishing the high army boots. The uniform hung on the porch ready to be beaten. I helped Sadie, the house slave, set the table and finish the meal preparations. I hate owning slaves, but I must abide by my husband's wishes.

"Where's the Captain?” I asked. The necessary's door was ajar. I could see the end of the metal tub still filled with brown water.

"He's in the den, Miss.” James and Sadie knew my secret and had so far kept their promise of silence. I feared Sadie would burst with excitement if the truth were not told soon.

I was anxious, yet excited. Afraid he may not be as happy as I about the child, and unhappy to carry the news to him that his drunken night of lust would bring him an heir.

Until this day, I had never entered the den. It was Evan's. An armchair sat in front of the fireplace, a smoking stand next to it. The books on the shelves, the desk and pen and ink set on it were Evan's. The room even smelled of Evan. The scents I found so charming as a child, the tobacco and bourbon, were now just Evan.

I rapped on the jam, the door being open.

"Come in, my dear, no need to stand on ceremony.” He came to me. Taking my hand, he led me to the warmth of the fireplace, pulling out the wood desk chair for himself. I sat on the edge of the armchair.

"Now tell me what it is you need?"

For a moment I looked into his tired eyes. “You work too hard."

His frown was from puzzlement. “It is a time when we must all work hard. We could be in the middle of a war by this time next year. You know that. Is that why you asked that I join you for supper?"

I could see his irritation grow. I had taken him from his home guard, and he thought it was for a meal with a wife who thought so little of him.

"Why do you choose this time, with the country going crazy, to take me from my work?” His voice was quite sharp. The redness of his eyes and crease in his brow showed his fatigue.

Unbidden tears wet my cheeks. My hands trembled in my lap.

"Woman,” he whispered with a tremor, “What is it? What have I done to cause this reaction?"

I sat still as I tried to gather my words. He reached to wipe my tears away with his fingers. “Tell me."

"We are to have a child.” I said the words without feeling.

His face was blank, his voice mute.

"Evan, did you hear me? I am with child."

He shook his head slowly. “I heard you,” he whispered. “When? How? Of course ... oh, my God in Heaven, no. Not from that treacherous union ... but what other. What have I done?"

My worst fear was unfolding before my eyes. My child would grow up in a house with only its mother to love it. I had done my duty as a wife. I stood. Tears of despair for my child's future filled me. “This child has no control over the manner of its conception. Surely, if I can put that terrible night aside, you can. If not for me, then for your offspring.” I was sobbing as I blindly made my way to the door.

"No. No. Wait. You don't understand.” He stood, “It is my guilt for the manner of ... I'm not angry. I will cherish this child and give it the love that I seemed to have taken from you."

Words! He was playing with words. I had heard him many times talking to friends about politicians and how they could make the words do what they choose. He too could twist their meaning. I struggled to find the doorknob.

"Victoria,” his hands on my shoulders held me in place. I remembered that time some months ago when his touch was not so gentle. A shiver of ice crept into my heart. But his voice was kind.

I stopped and waited to be told his wishes. He stepped in front of me. I could not look at his face. I stared at the floor, as I searched for a handkerchief in the sleeve of my blouse. His own linen cloth reached my eyes first.

I used it and waited, daring a glance at his face. My mood softened. Was that a smile on his lips, in his eyes? It was. But was it ridicule? Could I hope he had some feeling for this child?

"You are happy about the baby, are you not?” I asked.

"Oh, indeed I am, but I am worried too, about you. These are hard times. And I fear they will worsen. How will you carry this burden and care for this child if something happens to me?"

"Nothing is going to happen to you. I'm sure supper is ready. Let's eat and make our plans."

Victoria was expecting a baby. Where would she go from here? Connie puzzled over the new development.

Putting a slip of paper in the book to mark her place, Connie laid it aside and stood, stretching her cramped body. Her eyes were on fire. She couldn't read anymore tonight, or this morning to be exact, she told herself as she looked at her watch, past two. How did it get so late?

Connie went to the washroom and prepared again to go to bed. This time she knew she would sleep, but she also knew she would dream.

Wednesday

"I'll be back in a couple of hours. Sure you don't want me to stay?” Brian opened the door of the Volvo with one hand, while the other held a battered floral printed umbrella aloft to shield Connie from the persistent spring shower.

"I'll be okay.” She got out of the car. Tipping the umbrella to one side, Connie looked up at the building. The gloomy day seemed to suit the grandeur of the dark gray stone.

Although she suspected it would be just as grand in the sunlight. Tall narrow windows lined the top two floors. The stonework was beautifully engraved. Stone pillars guarded the main entrance. As she went up the steps, Connie could feel the wear patterns made by thousands of foot steps. Her interest piqued, she went to the bronze plaque next to the wide doorway. “Robert E. Lee Memorial Library, Built in 1871, by MW Brentwell Co."

Connie read the plaque again. “MW Brentwell Co.” was that Max Jr.? If it was, now she knew what he did after the war.

She turned and smiled at Brian. “It was built after the Civil War. I don't know where Victoria was then, but if I do trip, I promise to stay on the premises, okay?"

Not waiting for an answer, she went to the door and opened it. Turning again she told Brian, “You know, you look like a doorman. If you ever want to start a new career ... well, keep it in mind.” She went inside.

A thin, gray-haired woman was waiting in the foyer. She held her hand out as Connie entered. “Hello and welcome to the Robert E. Lee Memorial Museum and Historical Society. I'm Mrs. Ebstein. You must be Connie Hart. I talked to you on the phone yesterday. I didn't think you'd come in the rain."

Connie took the extended hand, returning the warm smile. She liked Mrs. Ebstein immediately. “It's a beautiful day to do research and Betty Fraiser tells me that this is the best place to start.” She shifted her purse and carryall as she trailed behind her hostess.

"This was once a library,” Ruth Ebstein explained as they moved from the small alcove to a large central reception area. They walked on faded oriental rugs scattered over the bare hardwood floors and headed for the central staircase. “We pay a token rent of one silver dollar a year for its use. Repairs and maintenance are taken care of out of the funds donated by our supporters, the local business community and matching funds from the city."

Connie looked up at the ceiling crowned by a domed skylight and the open balconies of the upper floors.

"Do you have a pamphlet or brochure about the Society? I want to include information about them in my article and I'll need some background,” Connie said as she passed by groupings of furniture, cluttered cases and standing walls covered with pictures. So many things to see, she wished she had more time.

"Of course, I'll get some things together for you,” Mrs. Ebstein said.

They reached the base of a wide staircase. “Can you tell me anything about the MW Brentwell Company?” Connie asked.

"Not much. I know they built this building in eighteen seventy-one. Mr. Brentwell was a local resident. He was instrumental in repairing much of the damage from the war, even though he had lost a leg during some battle in the western campaign."

They stood at the top of the stairs. “This floor is the public access area, books, magazines, newspapers, et cetera on the left.” Connie looked where Mrs. Ebstein indicated. Rows of racks and shelving units jutted out from the wall, leaving only a narrow walkway along the banister. “On the right we display the many items that the citizens of Fredericksburg have loaned to us, family pictures, documents and items of interest. We're very proud of our collection."

The items on display were overwhelming. Connie wondered if she would have enough time to look at them. But first things first, she needed to look at the microfiche records of old newspapers.

"Where does that go?” she asked indicating the spiral stairs to their right. A blue velvet rope blocked the entrance.

"The third floor. We use it for storage and restoration. It's restricted to employees and members of the group, but I'll be glad to take you up there if you would like to look around."

"I'd love to see it, but I'm afraid I won't have time today. Maybe on my next visit.” Connie shifted her bags turning to look for the microfiche viewer.

As if she had heard the younger woman's thoughts, Ruth continued, “Here's the work area."

Hidden behind sets of standing walls on the left side of the balcony, was a modern array of PC's, microfiche viewers, CD file viewers, a printer and two copiers interspersed by long tables topped with high intensity lamps and desk organizers filled with implements to satisfy every possible need.

"We get a large number of students and Civil War buffs. The tourists usually just look around downstairs.

"The microfiche are in the cabinets against the back wall. If you need help, just ask. Nobody will be around to bother you for a while yet. The offices are all on the first floor, in the back. That's where I'll be. You're welcome to browse as much as you like. Lois, our greeter will be in at ten, when we open to the public."

"Mrs. Ebstein, I have a friend coming later,” Connie said. “He may not arrive until after ten, but if he does get here early, will he be able to get in?"

"Oh, yes. I'm working in front today, and the doors will be open.” She turned to go down the steps, but looked back. “I almost forgot, we have coffee and rolls downstairs. You're welcome to help yourself. The kitchen is in the far right corner, the bathrooms, too."

Connie nodded her thanks. “Maybe later, I'm anxious to get started.” She heard Mrs. Ebstein's steps on the bare wood as she went back to the lobby.

Situating her notebooks and references on one of the tables containing a microfiche viewer, Connie went to a PC and scanned the directory. She had to limit herself to the period of the War, but her fingers itched to start at the beginning and work her way to the present. It would be an impossible task, she decided, looking at the solid wall of cabinets, their drawers filled with history.

Some of the filmed documents went all the way back to the mid seventeen hundreds. The local newspaper was one of the most frequently preserved items, along with birth and death certificates, and land and property deeds. During the Civil War, lists were posted of the men going to war, and of those wounded, killed or missing during that action. Everything was filed by date.

Good, that would make the search easier.

She pulled out the drawer marked “1860-1870,” picking up one of the yellow cardboard place markers, she took the entire unit to the machine and prepared for a long morning.

Mrs. Ebstein brought the coffee pot and a heavy ceramic cup to Connie's work area an hour later. “We don't encourage people to bring food and drink up here, but it is going to be a slow day, what with the rain and all. No one will be the wiser."

"No need to leave the pot. I'll come down for more later.” Connie smiled as she took a sip. “I'll need to stretch my legs later anyway. Thanks for being so thoughtful."

"Oh, it's no trouble. Are you finding what you need?"

"Yes, I am, thank you. Your files are very organized."

"Great, well, I'll let you get back to work. I'll be around and Lois came in about ten minutes ago."

Connie could hear the two women's voices echo throughout the empty building, as they went about their business. Brian would be arriving soon. She found that she was looking forward to seeing him.

Connie closed the notebook, packed the pile of copies in her bag, and gathered her things. She found a lot of answers to what happened to the Brewsters and the Brentwells and many of their friends. She was able to confirm many of the events that Victoria mentioned in her journal. Would she be able to hide what she knew when she saw Victoria again? Suddenly she could feel the stone walls closing in.

She had to get out of there, into the open. There were too many ghosts, too much to take in, she needed room to breathe.

Brian was waiting in the lobby. “How long have you been here?” She hadn't heard him arrive.

"Not long, I stopped after taking Joe to meet Tracey and took a few pictures. The weather is perfect to shoot the Blackstone Pub, real gloomy. And I took some of the outside of this building.” He turned to the receptionist. “Lois and I have been having a very enlightening conversation on the building's history. It's been a delight.” He took the short, chunky, middle-aged woman's hand. “You have been very helpful and it was a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's been mine, Mr. Eckart. Ms. Hart, Ruth ... Mrs. Ebstein left some information for you.” She handed Connie a large manila envelope.

Connie expressed her own thanks to the society by leaving a donation in the box provided after covering the charge for using the equipment. “Thank her for me. I'll use this in my article and I'll send a copy of the magazine when it's published."

The rain had stopped and the sun was trying to push the remaining clouds aside. The air was cool and damp, not at all unpleasant.

"Did you know that this building was built in eighteen seventy-one by MW Brentwell Company? Any connection?” Brian asked as he opened the door for Connie.

"As a matter of fact, yes. I'll fill you in over lunch."

With the pile of printouts between them, Connie and Brian ate hamburgers, fries and shakes at a local fast food.

"First, I did find out that the doctor went into the service to tend to the wounded with the Army of Northern Virginia near the beginning of the war. Max joined the regulars about the same time. That left Prudence alone.

"Evan was made Provost Marshal. So it would seem that he turned his and Victoria's home over to be used as offices and quarters for officers and contacts passing through the area and later as a hospital. He and Victoria must have moved back in with her mother.

"I still don't know what happened to Victoria. But there's an article in a July sixty-three issue of the local paper. That was almost seven months after the First Battle of Fredericksburg. Here look for yourself.” She found the correct paper and handed it to Brian.

He read the short piece aloud. “After several days of searching, it has been determined that the popular wife of Lt. Colonel Evan Brewster has become a victim of war. Although her body has not been found, her cloak was discovered at the river's edge, wet and covered with mud. The war effort will sorely miss her gentle hand and kind heart at the many community hospitals."

Connie didn't wait for Brian to comment. “Evan was a real piece of work. Somewhere in there are some of the articles he wrote and posters that he had put up in town. He was like a nineteenth-century Hitler. Encouraging people to report their friends and neighbors if they suspected them of aiding and abetting the enemy. When I read them, I wondered what Victoria thought of her husband's career.

"Speaking of Evan, he married Annabelle, Victoria's best friend, that same December. They don't mention the baby, but if Evan had a child to care for it would explain the speedy wedding.

"If there's no record, I don't know if I'll ever find out the whole story. Maybe the journal will give me some clues.

"Remember that grave stone I rubbed of a local soldier? There were a lot of them in the cemetery but his seemed to pull at me. Rollin (Carpy) Carpstairs was his name. I still don't know what connection he has to Victoria, but he was in the Provost Guard and he is reported to have died at the Chapel of Mercy from pneumonia. Somewhere in that stack of papers is the article. It makes him out to be a local hero for staying behind and guarding the city from scavengers.

"He probably knew Victoria. I'm wondering if they had an affair and maybe Evan found out and quietly got rid of Rollin. If he did, maybe Victoria ran away, or tried to, to get away from him.

"At any rate it looks like both Max and the doctor returned home after the war. We know that the doctor died in seventy-two, I saw Victoria at the church after his funeral. That's puzzling too. Where had she been since her disappearance nine years earlier?"

Brian held several sheets of paper in his hands. “Look at these lists, injured, killed, missing. What a way to get news about someone you love. You have enough information to write a series of articles or maybe even a book."

"The thought crossed my mind, but I want to know how this real life saga will end first.” Connie drank the rest of her milkshake and started to gather the copies.

"It's been a fruitful day, but I still have a lot of questions."

"I can see that.” Brian put the trash on the brown tray and stood to carry it to the trash bin.

"Where to? Since the rain's stopped, the tourists are coming out in droves. Would you like to join them?” Brian held the door open.

"Hmm, I shouldn't. I have an article to finish. But there is one place I would like to see, the house that Evan built for Victoria."

Armed with a tourist map of the city and the description of where the house was located from the newspaper for those wanted to visit the Provost Guard, Brian and Connie left the parked car and started to search. The house was located two streets off the river at the south end of the city, three blocks north of the railroad station. All they found was a park, and an historical marker. “Once the site of the Provost Guard of Fredericksburg. The building was destroyed in the violence that preceded the battle of December 13, 1862."

"Now what?” Brian looked around the small park. “Nothing left to see."

Connie started to walk down the slate path that wound through the trees and flower beds. A large grassy area opened in front of them. “That's were the house was. It looked like a plantation house with the columns in front and whitewashed framework, only smaller.” Gasping with surprise she said. “It's beautiful."

Quickly Connie turned around. “Brian,” she called, but she knew he wouldn't be behind her, not in this time zone.

Turning back, she thought she was alone, but then she heard the moans coming from the shade of the tall maple trees that circled the building. As she drew nearer Connie could see that the yard had been trampled into mud by men, animals and the wagons filled with injured.

She stood frozen as the pleas of the wounded grew louder, the sweet smell of decaying flesh, the coppery smell of blood and the more familiar smell of human waste assailed her. She could hear the screams of those inside the building.

There was blood everywhere, mixing with the soil, soaking through the sorry bandages, staining the nurses’ aprons and dresses. Hoards of insects hovered and buzzed over the wounded, adding yet another level of discomfort.

Three old women carrying pails of water and tin cups walked among the suffering, offering them some little relief. Their own faces were streaked by tears mixed with dust and the blood of others.

A woman came through the open doorway. She bent her head to untie the grimy cloth protecting her long dark hair. Connie saw that the nurse was Victoria. Her eyes looked past the horror around her, and fixed on Connie. With a nod, she left the wide porch and started to walk to the back of the house.

Connie followed.

It was no walk through a rose garden. Hands reached out to catch Victoria's skirts as she threaded her way through the wounded and steered clear of the muddy ruts.

Even knowing that her foot wouldn't be felt by them, Connie followed the same path, stepping high to avoid treading on limbs, and walking sideways to traverse the narrow areas between bodies.

Connie wished she could reach out and hold Brian's hand. Just the thought of his warmth, made her smile.

"You can smile at their misery?"

Victoria's words jerked Connie back. There was a bite in her voice, and weariness.

"Of course not,” Connie quickly answered. Victoria was already moving away. Trailing behind, Connie tried to avert her eyes. She tried not to see too many of the unnatural sights that threatened to assault her senses.

Oddly, an area behind the house had been kept clear of any obstruction. A patch of ground under the last two windows was muddy. A boy of thirteen or fourteen with a cloth over the lower part of his face pushed a vendor's cart around the corner.

She was about to ask Victoria about the boy and cart, when Connie heard an oddly familiar sound. It was the splat of something heavy landing on a wet surface, like a piece of fresh meat slapped down on the butchers cutting board. From the corner of her eye she saw something sail out of one of the open windows, there was another sickening splat. She knew what the sound was. Closing her eyes, Connie wished she could go back to her own time.

"Come.” Victoria's soft command forced Connie to open her eyes and follow.

They passed within a few feet of the operating room windows. Connie glanced at a disembodied arm, the fingers still twitching. The boy was there to collect and bury the amputated body parts.

My God! Connie held her stomach. I'm going to be sick. She rushed to get away from the gory scene. Kneeling near a clump of bushes, she put her head down and tried to think of anything but the growing pile of flesh.

If I throw up while I'm in the nineteenth century, will I leave a mess in the twenty-first? I might find out.

"Are you all right, Kone? I'm sorry, I should have gone around the other side of the house, but this was shorter.” Victoria sat in the grass next to Connie. “But now you see what we live with.” Her voice quivered. “You must tell me about the War. How long are we to endure this madness?"

Sitting with her back to the house, Connie thought she could answer her question. “It's a long war. The horrors of it live in history. I keep it alive by writing about the people and places affected by it. Many scholars study it, but that doesn't matter to you. You're living in it. I wish I could help but I can't change what has been, and I don't know enough to make a difference to your life."

"Why do you come to my time? Is it to help us? Or to taunt me in my misery? Tell me of my family. What of me, of Evan.” Victoria's voice trailed off to a whisper.

Connie watched as tears filled Victoria's eyes and slowly made their way down the soiled cheeks. Lifting her apron, Victoria wiped her face. Drawing her knees up to her chin she looked at Connie. “I haven't heard from Max in some time, he and Simon, Annabelle's brother are listed as missing.” Her accusing eyes were colder that the ice that filled Connie's stomach, the indigo swirled like angry storms. “Do you know what has become of them?"

Connie nodded slowly. How much should she tell? “I know Max comes home and lives a full and prosperous life. Don't write him off, Victoria. Or yourself either. What you are doing here is important. If it weren't for people like you and Max ... you make our country what it becomes. The standards you've set are hard to live up to. That's why we study this damned war, I guess, to see how we can be better citizens."

It was a little, but not enough.

"Tell me about the War. Is the South victorious? Are we freed from the stranglehold of the Federal Government?” Her words were angry, each hitting Connie like a blow.

"I can't tell you any more. I may have told you too much as it is.” Connie tried to be firm.

"Evan fears a battle will be fought here in Fredericksburg. Can you say if this will be?"

"More than one. Trust Evan. He is a good military man. I can't say anymore, Victoria. If I told you all I know, it might affect your decisions and the future. Not just your future. I would be taking a chance with millions of lives."

Standing, Victoria brushed off her skirt. “Can you smell it, Kone? The rotting flesh? At first, I became ill every time I came near this place. The things I saw, bodies torn beyond healing, the maggots that find refuge in the open wounds of the living men. The things I heard, screams of pain, the death rattle that never ends, the saws cutting through bone. The worst is the smell of the dead. That smell will be with me for the rest of my life.

"I hardly notice them any more; they are here, every day, a part of my world. What I notice are their eyes. I see pain and death in so many eyes.” The quiet words trailed off as she started walking back to the house, not bothering to lift her skirt to keep it out of the filth that covered the grounds. Her steps quickened as two wagons pulled by frenzied horses entered the yard. Their burden of wounded carried here from some nearby battlefield.

Connie wondered what day it was. What battle bore this latest crop of causalities?

Brian sat next to her in the grass and handed her the purse she'd dropped when she went into the past. “Welcome back. You look sick."

"I feel sick,” she said. “I met Victoria here when it was a hospital. There isn't any way to describe...” Connie swallowed to fight the nausea.

A group of tourists stopped and read the bronze marker. They looked at the small park without a hint of understanding before walking on. “They have no idea what was here. They can't understand.” Connie realized that she was crying. She dug in her purse for tissues.

"Come on. I think it's time we get out of here.” Brian stood and put out his hand.

Connie pulled herself to her feet. “I have a lot of notes to go through and an article to finish. I should be getting back to Fraiser's. I want to have the first rough draft done by tonight so I can show it to Betty and Carl. Once I have this out of the way I'll be free of at least one obligation."

"Okay, I'll go with..."

"No, you have your own work to do. The sun is out. The sky is beautiful. Drop me off at the inn and go take some pictures. Tonight you can critique my work."

Connie laid her head back and closed her eyes. Her thoughts spun. She could see Victoria's scowling face. It was older and wrinkled. Her arms were crossed over the bodice of her drab gray dress. A floppy hat shaded her eyes. “You have to take love where you find it. It won't come beggin'. So few find true love, don't be one of them, child. Fight for what is yours to have.” The quiet whisper was firm and clear.

"Connie, wake up.” Brian's hand was on her arm.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep. I had the strangest dream ... I can't quite remember all of it, but Victoria...” She sat up, and seeing that they were in front of the B&B, she collected her things. “Oh, well, it will come back to me. I'll see you later. Thanks for the ride."

"Are you sure you don't want me to hang around?” Brian asked.

"I'm sure. You can't let the turn in weather go to waste. You'll be tied up at the battlefield most of the day tomorrow. And you can't neglect your own work."

"Well ... it would be a shame to waste those clouds,” Brian admitted. “I promise I'll be back by four."

"No promises, you take as long as you need."

Connie had her hand on the door latch.

"Don't trip without me,” Brian said. His concern was real.

"I'll try not to, but ... you know..."

"I know and that makes it all the more important that I stick around."

"It'll be all right. I'll be in my room and I promise that if I do trip, I won't leave the house."

"Well, I guess you should be safe if you stay put."

"I will. Come on, you're making me feel guilty. I'll see you tonight.” Connie pulled the latch. The door opened. With one leg out of the car, she stopped. Quickly leaning across the narrow space between them, she kissed Brian.

As Connie closed the door, she heard laughter coming from the kitchen. The drapes in the parlor were closed to protect the antique rugs and furnishing from the sun. While the sitting room curtains let in the sun making it cheerful and airy in comparison to the gloom across the hall. The smells of baking filled the house.

Not wanting to see anyone, Connie quickly went up the steps to her room.

Dropping her bags on the floor, she threw herself across the bed. Why hadn't she gone with Brian? Or let him come back with her? Why had she made a fool of herself by kissing him? How would she be able to look him in the eye at dinner? How would she be able to stand the time spent away from him?

Getting to her feet, Connie retrieved her notes and started arranging them. Work at least, would make the time go faster.

The article was done. The first draft was ready for the Fraisers to read.

After a brief history of ownership with emphasis on the Fraisers, Connie put together a fairly detailed biography of the Brentwells before and during the Civil War. She did omit the true cause of Victoria's sister, Evangeline's death, and only reported the recorded information available to the public on Victoria's disappearance.

The work done to her satisfaction, Connie clicked on the print icon and watched as the first sheet of paper feed into the portable printer. Now she could concentrate on Victoria.

Leafing through her disorderly stack of notes, Connie found the article that reported Victoria's death. The last line stood out.

The war effort will sorely miss her gentle hand and kind heart at the many community hospitals.

Knowing Victoria's background, her father being a doctor and she and her mother had at times helped in his home office, Connie wasn't surprised that Victoria had done more than roll bandages and knit socks. Seeing her at the hospital this afternoon had seemed a natural place to find her. Maybe Victoria would give her some more insight in the journal.

Making sure that the printer had enough paper to finish its work, Connie went to the wardrobe and took the journal from her canvas suitcase. She experienced some guilt for hiding the small book. After all she had found it in the Fraiser's house and by law it belonged to them, but ... Connie felt that she too had a claim to the book. She just didn't know how to prove that claim.

There were only a few entries for the remainder of eighteen sixty.

10 November 1860

I have taken to my bed. I have terrible pains. Mama is afraid. I can see it in her eyes, even though she tries to hide it from me. She stays with me night and day.

16 November 1860

It is over. The child is lost, and now, so am I.

20 November 1860

My sadness is deep. I thought to end my life. Mama sat with me while I was ill, she helped when the baby came. Her presence gave me strength when I could not see beyond the bed I lay upon. Now I understand the melancholy that darkened her life. But she need not have suffered. Her child, my sister could have lived. I have no choice; God has taken it out of my hands.

Evan is hurt by our loss. It was the first I knew how much this child meant to him. He has lost a part of himself as well. His concern for me is touching. He has assigned a Corporal in the home guard to carry notes between us several times a day. His name is Rollin Carpstairs. He is a friend of Maxi's called Carpy.

So there is a connection between Rollin and Victoria. Did it go further? Turning the page, Connie saw that more pressing things were happening in Fredericksburg.

6 July 1861

Max has joined the army. A group of his friends from school found the Home Guard too tame. They heard troops are gathering in Richmond. He left a letter for Mama and one for Papa. There was a third. It was to me. He has been a good brother and friend, now he is a grown man and I can not fault him for wanting to fight. We had a long talk before he took his leave. He is sorry that I had suffered the loss of my child. We embraced, both shedding tears. I will pray for his well being and safe return.

25 August 1861

Papa has gone to join the Confederate forces. Soldiers came in search of men to fight and doctors to treat the wounded. In spite of his advanced age, Papa is in his 55th year, with a wife to care for, the troops implored him to join them. The call to do his duty weighed heavily on him. After speaking with Evan, he gathered his instruments. He will leave in the morning for Richmond.

With Papa and Maxi gone, Evan and I will live with Mama. Our house will be used as a barracks and if need be a hospital. The carriage house is larger and can stable a dozen horses.

That matched the accounts in the papers. A strong rush of déjà vu swept over Connie.

Papa's stable houses only Maggie, my mare, with the small pony cart I use to go to market, as well as Evan's gelding. Lacy and Sam have moved their family into the loft. Their house was burnt by ruffians. James and Sadie, Evan's slaves will sleep in an empty stall next to the carriage room.

The team and wagon were given to the Home Guard for transport, and of course, Maxi took King Chess, his gelding, when he left to join the war. Papa will take the carriage and Princess, his mare. He will not leave alone. Many of the remaining men of fighting age joined the group. How many will be left to come home? All that are left of the Home Guard are old men and very young boys. What duties they perform remain to be seen. We are such fools to wage war.

There are many mouths to feed and only Evan to provide. He is a strong man and I do not fear starvation, only his loss.

Connie felt the walls of the room close in. War was being waged and Victoria was a soldier's wife. She was a good one, Connie thought, remembering Victoria in the park that had once been her home.

30 August 1861

We knit socks, write letters, and worry about our men. After the surrender of Fort Sumter, a battle was engaged near Manassas at Bull Run Creek. It is written in the newspaper that many were killed. We prayed that God's wisdom would fill the hearts of Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Davis and end this conflict. Can we truly be so different from those we fight? What of their wives and mothers?

Many say the fighting will not touch us. We are a small town. But Evan tells a more frightening tale. We are a rail and river center. We have means of export and import, and as if planned by some evil God, we are located midway between Washington and Richmond, the two capitals of our warring country. Evan has talked of sending us to his father's plantation. I will not leave my husband. It is my duty to do what I can for his cause.

10 September 1861

Evan has been commissioned a Major in the regular army. He will serve in Fredericksburg as Provost Marshall and will take his troops from the Home Guard.

23 September 1861

Some days ago, Lacy and I went to trade grain for soap. We saw many of the local boys who have returned with missing arms and legs, and still others come in wagons of death. They can be seen everywhere.

That day a wagon thundered into the market place. The poor team came to a hurried stop as the farmer driving yelled for help. He carried a load of wounded soldiers, some dressed in the butternut of the Confederacy and some wearing blue.

The farmer had come upon the scene of the short and furious fight. He and his son brought the wounded to the town. Two in the wagon were beyond helping.

I gave what aid I could to their torn bodies as they told me of the encounter. It seems the two small patrols came upon each other as they were each hunting for food.

My own search for provisions having been interrupted by their arrival, I understood their need.

I am not a stranger to the sight of blood, but this much? My resolve was pressed to continue the work.

It was late evening when I returned home. Mama had sent for Evan, fearing for my safety. Evan was preparing to send his troops to find me in the countryside. He feared I might have been carried off, or dragged into a dark street where some unsavory character might have had his way with me, or maybe he would find me dead by the river where I had been taken after being robbed. I speak lightly of the scene that greeted me. In truth, I was deeply sorry for the turmoil my tardiness caused.

Evan came to my room after supper. He did not tap at the door. I made no mention of this to him. I mention it now only to show his state of mind. My heart went out to him. It was the first I saw the graying hairs on his head, the deep furrows in his forehead, and the gray leanness of his face. He sat on the edge of my bed. I had taken up pen and book to make a note to you. I am afraid I had forgotten it later.

He came to talk. To talk to me as a woman, not some young girl he had taken advantage of. His words were soft and filled with sadness.

"The conflict goes well for the South, but it will go on for some time yet, I fear. I have thought to join the Regulars.” My heart sank at his words, “But my responsibilities are great here, and I can not abandon them."

He took my hand in his. I had never before noticed how rough and gnarled his had become. “The fight may yet come to our own door. Our army is all around us, they gather to fight. I must see to your safety. My heart would rest easier if I knew you and your mother were safely away. After today I can not delay any longer."

I tried to protest, but he would not hear it. “I have made arrangements with my father to take you both in when the time comes. Lacy and her family and James and Sadie are to join you; they can care for you both."

I was angry that he should want to be rid of me, but touched for the reasons he gave. “I will stay. You can send Mama and the others to a safer place, but I will remain here. You are my husband and I will do my duty to you and perhaps to the Confederacy as well. I have seen a need today, and I mean to fill it."

A fire lit his tired eyes. It was an anger I had not seen in him before. “I will not have my wife coming home as you did today. My God, woman, I thought you were one of the wounded. You were covered with soil and blood. Your skirts and petticoats torn."

"We needed bandages,” I argued back.

"But your own clothes. What were you thinking?” His hands shook.

I stilled my own frustration. “Evan, those boys did not care to see my legs or any other part of my body. They were in pain and dying. They needed comfort. It will not be the last time such a thing happens. As you say, the Confederate army is all around. If the army is here, the wounded and sick will be in their ranks. Would you prefer I walk by and let them lay in pools of blood from their own bodies?” My words were stern, and not the words he would like to hear from an obedient wife.

He stood and walked to the windows, his head down, he rubbed the beard he had recently grown against my wishes. Evan stood a long time watching the empty street.

Finally he spoke. “It is raining. I would rather it were snow. It is easier to walk on frozen ground than in mud."

I waited. I will stay, I told myself. I have found a way I can be of service. There was someone in a distant camp, who will take care of Maxi if the need be. I will care for their kin in turn.

The sound of his deep sigh brought my attention back to Evan. His back was still turned making his words unclear. I left the warmth of my quilt and went to his side. Had his body shrunk, surly not, but he seemed smaller, beaten perhaps.

"I can not hear what you are saying.” I felt the chill of outdoors coming through the closed windows. “Come closer to the fire, where it is warm.” He stood strong, not seeming to hear my plea. “I will do what you say to preserve my safety. You can send James with me. And I promise to take bandages so it will not be necessary to tear off my clothing.” I smiled at my own teasing remark.

His mouth curved into a smile for an instant, but straightened. He could not allow himself the relief of humor in this time of sorrow and worry. “I will consider what you suggest.” Turning on his heels, he left me to my thoughts. He came to me that night, staying till the dawn. It was the first we had been together as man and wife. He can be a gentle lover.

It was the next morning. Evan was holding council in the parlor when I entered. A young man in uniform stood in front of him, his hat in hand. When he turned, I saw him to be Maxi's friend Carpy, the sweetheart of Annabelle's youth and the courier of notes during my illness. Fearing to intrude on the business of war, I started to back out of the room.

Evan called to me. “Victoria, please come in."

I think I blushed, he had surprised me. “I have made my decision. You are right, we must all do what we can to further the Cause.” My heart leaped with joy, and I admit not just a little fear. “But you must abide by my rules. Is that agreed?"

I was suspicious and not ready to accept these rules without first knowing what they were about. I told him as much.

He considered whether I was being defiant in front of one of his men. His eyes narrowed, his mouth worried his mustache, in the end he decided I had the right to know the limits he would impose before agreeing.

"You will not leave the house before daybreak and you will return before nightfall."

I nodded in agreement. He went on.

"You will not leave the house alone. I have assigned Corporal Rollin Carpstairs,” he nodded to Carpy, “to accompany you. He will remain with you until you return safely."

"What if Carpy ... the Corporal should become ill, or has other duty? Am I to have another companion?"

"We will see to that if the time ever comes to consider it."

He was being the Major and I found I had to respect his station.

"You will go where you must, unless Corporal Carpstairs does not think it safe. You are to obey him in this decision, without question."

I looked at Carpy, so his duties were to be changed. I nodded again. “Yes, I agree to your rules."

"Good, it is settled then.” He turned to the Corporal. “You will be here in the morning to escort my wife."

"Evan ... Major, I would prefer to start this morning, if Carpy is free. I will go to the neighbors to find cloth for bandages and show them how to prepare them for use. After the noon meal, I ... we,” I was quick to correct my words, ignoring the signs of anger that I saw building in my husband's face. “will go to the Chapel to help with the patients."

His eyes were dark and his speech sharp. “Corporal, go to the kitchen and have Lacy get you a decent breakfast. Mrs. Brewster will be with you in a few minutes.” He waited until he was sure no one was within hearing.

"My dear woman, did you mean to defy me? You had your plans made, knowing that I had not yet come to a decision.” His lips were pressed hard together, perhaps to keep them from spewing out ugly words in anger. I touched them with my finger, then with my own lips. Startled he drew back, his hands held mine as if for protection. His eyes darted around the room. Did he expect someone to jump out of the shadows and ridicule him for kissing his wife?

"My dear husband, until I heard of your decision and the rules you have set, I had no plan. I had promised to hear you out, and I kept my promise.” I kissed him again, quickly. “Thank you.” I whispered, before I left him.

Rollin had become Victoria's constant companion, just when Victoria was warming up to Evan. This story was becoming a nineteenth century soap opera, Connie thought with amazement.

Footsteps in the hall followed by a door closing put Victoria's life back into the journal. Connie went to the wardrobe to return it to its hiding place.

"Connie, is everything all right?” Brian asked through the closed bathroom door.

Standing next to the wardrobe, Connie answered. “Yes, Brian, I didn't leave the room or the century since I came back. I have to get some things together. I'll see you downstairs."

Still embarrassed by her brazen act, Connie didn't want to see Brian alone, not just yet. Checking through the pages from the printer, she made sure everything printed properly and all the pages were in the right order. She secured them with a paperclip and quietly left the room.

The door to the office stood open. Connie rapped on the jam. “Betty, am I bothering you?"

Betty Fraiser looked up from the keyboard. “No, not at all. Can I do something for you?"

"No, everything is great. As a matter of fact, I have the first draft of the article. I thought you might like to read it.” Connie offered the freshly printed documents. “I may have to revise it a bit, but I don't expect many changes."

Betty stood and moved around the desk. “This is wonderful. I've been anticipating it ever since you proposed the idea. Maybe it will pump new life in the B&B business.” She took the pages and held them to her chest.

"I hope so. Staying in one of these old houses is the best way to get the true feeling of life as it was.” Aware of the full extent of her statement, Connie felt a little uncomfortable. If she told Betty the whole story of her visit, she would be written off as a nut.

"I'll read this after supper, if that's all right. I was just getting ready to go help Val in the kitchen."

"You can read it anytime. If you don't get a chance before I leave, you can e-mail any corrections or comments to me at home. I won't send it in until the end of the month. Do you still have my address?"

"Yes, I do. But I won't wait that long to read it. I wish I could do it right now. I'll talk to you about it before you leave.” Betty put the article on the desk and followed Connie into the hall.

"I'm telling you, you took these pictures. I don't cut things off at the top. And I focus, you just point and shot."

The gentle disagreement drifted into the parlor as Connie crossed to the dining room. Betty detoured to the kitchen. Joe made no comment to his wife's accusations.

Brian leaned back in one of the high-backed chairs at the far end of the long table smiling at his friends. Connie quietly slipped into the room and headed for the sideboard and a cup of coffee.

"I wish I could take a camera with me when I trip. I could get some really good pictures.” Joe was going through a stack of photos while Tracey had a second pack on the table in front of her.

"I doubt if they would be ‘good’ pictures. Really interesting, though, like this one.” Holding one of the snapshots out by its corner, she smiled broadly at her husband. “Just what was it you were taking a picture of? The entire top half of the statue is cut off, the building behind it is almost in the picture, even the clouds and mountains are out of focus."

"Let me see.” Joe took the photo, holding it at the edges. “Okay, okay.” His manner turned to self-righteous indignation. “Look right there at the base of the statue, there's a baby bird with its mother.” He handed the picture back with a smug expression. Crossing his arms he leaned back, as if waiting for his wife's apology.

Tracey took the glossy print and tilted it in the light, squinting, she peered closely at it. “I think I can ... yes, yes, I can see a bird ... all right, there are two of them. And just how can you tell they are mother and child?” She watched her husband through a veil of hair, her teasing eyes sparkled.

"I don't know. It's just a feeling.” He shrugged his shoulders. Turning to Connie, Joe apologized, “Sorry, didn't mean to ignore you. But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.” His pointed glance was for Tracey. “Did you guys have a good day?"

"Yes.” Connie took her cup to the table. “The Robert E. Lee Memorial Museum and Historical Society is a treasure trove of information.” Briefly Connie told them about the news items she had discovered. “We made a quick stop at the park where the Brewster house once stood. And I visited Victoria. Then I came back here and finished my article. Unless I find something out tomorrow that can be confirmed by history, it's a wrap, and not subject to content change.” She was silent for a minute, thinking about Victoria at the gruesome work of nursing in a makeshift war hospital. Unconsciously she tapped the heirloom she wore on her little finger against the coffee mug, as she related to the Handleys some of the things she found out, confirming the things she read in the journal and saw on her trips to the past.

Joe shook his head in disbelief. “When you figure out what your conductor is, I want to know. I'm going to get me one of those. But I think it's more that just a conductor. Your connection to Victoria is really tight. And you don't know what it is?"

"Haven't a clue.” Connie rubbed her arms against a non-existing chill. With deliberate care she avoided looking at Brian, she imagined she could feel his eyes on her. What must he think of her.

The kitchen door swung open, Val entered carrying a plate of thin sliced turkey breast. She smiled brightly at the group as she set her burden on the table.

Betty followed close behind the younger woman. “Make sure there is fresh coffee, and check the sideboard.” She spoke softly and quickly as she put her bowls of vegetables on the table. “Oh, I forgot the butter. Val..."

"No problem, Betty.” The door quickly swallowed her, and opened again to allow her to put the crock of butter between the guests.

Betty scanned the table with the critical eye of a hostess, seeing that all was in order, before she and Val moved out of the room.

"Are you sure you want to go to the battlefield?” Joe's face showed his concern for Connie.

"I think I have to. Most of the citizens who left the city went to the open fields and woods North of the city, but I think Victoria went with her husband. Evan may have wanted to have her close so he could protect her himself. He might have thought it would be safe to let her help in the field hospital. They were believed to be located down the other side of Marye's Heights. But if the Generals thought that the swamp area was safe from attack, they might have put a hospital there. The Union made a breakthrough in the swamp nearby ... and if there was a hospital ... It could explain what happened to her. She didn't disappear until six months later, but maybe something happened to make her run away. Well, I want to know if Victoria was there. I hope I can talk to her. And maybe I can figure out this conductor."

While they waited for the table to be cleared before dessert, Connie glanced sideways at Brian.

"Would you like more coffee?” Brian stood, and waited for her reply. He could still feel the touch of her soft lips on his.

"Yes, thank you.” She looked up at him as their hands touched, both having reached for the empty cup. “Sorry.” Connie quickly apologized, pulling her hand back.

"My pleasure.” He made his way around the table.

The kitchen door swung open as Val backed into the room carrying plates graced with thick slices of almond pound cake drizzled with lemon honey glaze.

The two couples waited for the dessert to be served, voicing their approval.

"Thank you, Val. It looks good. Did you have anything to do with making it?” Brian took a bite of the dessert. The buttery rich cake melted in his mouth.

"As a matter of fact, I make all the desserts. I love to bake."

Swallowing to clear his mouth, Brian gave his approval. “It's very good. I don't think I've eaten anything this week that wasn't, but this really hits the spot.” He cut off another bite.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Eckart. Ladies, Mr. Handley, enjoy the rest of your supper.” Walking quickly to the swinging door, Val looked back with a smile, before disappearing into the kitchen.

After the door settled in its frame, Connie told Brian, “I think you made her day and maybe a conquest.” She smiled at the quick glance he gave toward the kitchen.

"It's one of the hazards of being a debonair gentleman. I leave broken hearts everywhere I go.” Brian looked across the table at the other couple.

"That's one of the ageless problems for us handsome men types. But we can handle it, we learn young,” Joe said, planting a kiss spiked with lemon glaze on his wife's cheek.

"Well I think if it's such a big problem, you should do something about it. Like carry a dead fish in your pocket. That would keep the crowd of women manageable,” Tracey said as she scrubbed at the sticky mess on her face.

Watching Tracey's teasing eyes, Brian reached under the table and took Connie's hand, putting his palm against hers, he wove his fingers between hers, he felt her fold her fingers over the back of his hand as he did the same. “What about you? Do you have a crush on me?” he whispered.

"Well, now that you ask, I just might.” Connie didn't try to evade his kiss, instead she allowed herself to enjoy the thrill that enveloped her.

"Ah hum, we hate to break this up, but do you two love birds know what time it is?” Joe smiled at his friends. “We should get the car packed and make sure the food will be ready when we are."

"You're right ... I guess,” Brian agreed. Reluctantly he released Connie's hand.

Connie and Tracey headed for the kitchen, carrying the soiled dishes, cups and flatware. While Brian and Joe went to the parking lot, to clean out the trunk of the Volvo and decide what could be packed tonight and what could wait for morning.

Tracey's first words were, “Okay, what's going on? And don't say nothing."

"I truly don't know,” Connie said, then added with a smile, “I guess we like each other. I want to get to know Brian better and I don't know if it will lead to anything. We'll just have to wait and see."

"Put those dishes down. You're our guests and we don't allow guests to do the work.” Val wiped her hands before taking the stack of dishes from Connie. Tracey put hers on the sink.

"We wanted to know if everything is going to be ready for tomorrow. We'll be getting up pretty early,” Tracey said.

"It'll be ready at four-thirty. Would you like to have breakfast before you leave?” Val started to rinse the dishes and stack them in the dishwasher.

"We want to be on the road as early as we can. Betty said you would be able to pack us some pastries.” Tracey waited.

"Of course. And plenty of coffee, and ice water."

The arrangements confirmed, Connie and Tracey went to join the men in the parlor. They had maps spread out on the coffee table.

"Okay, I guess we're ready.” Joe started folding the papers and stacking them. “Tracey, do you feel like taking a walk before bed time?"

"Not tonight, I'm really tired and we have a three AM alarm, remember? Come on, let's go upstairs, we need to take a hot shower, it will help us sleep.” Tracey helped her husband gather the maps and led the way to their room.

"Hot shower, sounds like a good idea. What do you think?” Brian leaned back on the sofa, his hands behind his head, watching Connie.

"Yes, I'm going to take a hot shower, then I'm going to bed ... alone.” Connie smiled as she turned and left the room, hearing Brian's protest behind her.

As she prepared to enter the bathroom, there was a soft tap on the connecting door.

"Yes?” she asked, opening it a crack.

"I don't suppose you've changed your mind, about the shower I mean,” Brian asked.

"I didn't change my mind. I'll let you know when I leave the bathroom. I'll try to save some hot water for you.” Connie's good sense won out over her body's lust.

"There's no hurry. I'm planning a cold shower, unless you change your mind."

Looking into his mischievous eyes, Connie smiled. “You better count on a chilly shower, and a lonely night. I'll see you in the morning.” She started to close the door, but stopped when Brian pushed it open wide enough to lean forward and press his lips to hers in a quick kiss.

"I'll meet you in the kitchen at three-thirty.” His voice was husky, and his eyes half closed. He backed away from the door. Connie slowly closed it. It took will power for her to release the knob and turn around.

Connie let the hot spray sting her body as she willed herself to relax and enjoy her newly found happiness. But her mind kept returning to Victoria. Married to a man out of duty, yes they were finding a mutual respect and maybe love for each other, but her future was uncertain.

As she left the bathroom, Connie tapped on the connecting door. “I'm finished, Brian, the bathroom's all yours."

She heard his soft reply as she went to her own room.

I have to read the journal, maybe I can learn something more. She took the book to the armchair and settled in, pulling her feet up under her. I won't read for long, I do have to get some sleep. The dial on her wrist watch told her it was eight-thirty, if she got to bed by nine-thirty at the latest, she would still get enough sleep. Connie turned her attention to the yellowed pages on her lap.

6 April 1862

Evan has again forbidden me to go into the streets. It is unsafe, he says. I believe his new commission as Lt. Colonel has made him more demanding even in his own house. I can not go to work at the hospitals. There are fewer patients and many willing to help. Perhaps they will not miss my meager assistance, but I will miss the helping. Carpy still comes each day. We go door to door and collect old clothing and blankets for the injured, there is less and less to be found. Mama and me and Lacy and Sadie tear the cloth into bandages and boil them as Papa had taught us. We mend the blankets and quilts to be reused. Some of our benefactors make new cakes of soap from the bits and pieces too small to use as they are, or new candles from the leavings of old, and from bees wax when it can be found. We find sweetness in honey of the bee's hives, and make coffee from grinding roots and chicory. Tea can be boiled from dandelions or sassafras roots. There is much that is needed. Many have little or no food. Gardens have been ravaged and trampled under. Fields burned or cut down to use as camps for the armies. Evan sees that we have flour and meat on occasion, but we must find nourishment in the fruits and vegetables we are still able to grow or find. There is little meat. Tonight we will have turnip soup. Times are hard. And I fear they will be worse before this war is done.

I will be back to helping at the Chapel and the House soon, on this Evan and I differ. Carpy brings stories of battles that bring with them an increase in wounded. The fighting is all around us. I have begun to make preparations. I will do my part.

If Victoria was having an affair with Carpy, it didn't show in her writing. Connie was more puzzled than ever.

24 June 1862

The war is getting closer. Soon it will be time to send the others away to a safer place. I must prepare my arguments. Evan has talked of my travel plans as well. I remain strong. I will not leave. Now more than ever I am needed here.

13 August 1862

Much time has passed since I have written. Cloth for bandages can not be found nor can the thread to sew wounds. The hair from horse's manes and tails is taken and boiled to soften it for this gruesome task, the wounds are then bound in old bandages that have been boiled to clean them. We have children searching the countryside for what food they can find. It is all put into a pot and boiled into a soup for those poor souls. I fear that one day there will be nothing to flavor the water.

5 September 1862

Evan was home when I returned today. He still wore his uniform. “Evan,” I asked, “You're home early. Have your worries lessened?” I was hopeful, but it was not to be.

"I have come to talk with you. Come to my office.” His manner was solemn. He led the way while I removed my coat and gave Lacy my bloodied apron.

"You must get ready to leave. I will have transport for you in two days. A caravan leaves for the South, you, your mother and Lacy and her family, James and Sadie will be with it.” He kept speaking of the things I should do in preparation. My ears were closed to his instructions.

"I will not leave.” I said when he was silent at last. “I will tell Lacy to get ready and what to take and how to pack, and I will get Mama ready to go, but I will not. I am needed here, and I will have your protection and that of Car ... Corporal Carpstairs."

He was as a statue.

Connie found that she was holding her breath.

"I will stay. There is no more need for discussion on that point. You must tell me what to get ready for the others.” I waited for him to speak.

"What are you saying?” His eyes were filled with anger.

I was afraid, but knew I must stand firm. “I am telling you as I have before. I will stay with my husband."

"I won't be here.” He stopped and looked at me hard before he continued. “Victoria, I will be working all day and night. Many strangers will come to this house and I will go to meet others. The Confederate Army moves north to meet the Federal, we must make ready. When battle takes place it will be too near to this place for you to be safe. You must leave."

"I will not..."

"But you will. By God and all that is holy, you will.” They were his last words on the subject as he left the house and rode back to join his troops.

I packed Mama's trunk. Lacy and Sam had enough to do in getting their own children and their meager possessions ready for travel. James and Sadie prepared food for the trip and packed what household items they could.

Carpy came with the wagon to gather the travelers. We had a tearful parting. Mama tried to make me go with them. I stood firm.

"He will be furious, you know. He will say I did not do my duty as instructed,” Carpy tried to warn me.

"He will get over it. I must do my duty as I see it.” I was concerned with the trouble Carpy could be facing. “Will you be all right? Can I ease the blow by coming with you to talk to the Colonel?"

"I think not. I will be accused of standing behind your petticoats.” He bowed his head, turning his hat in his gloved hands. “May I be so bold as to suggest..."

"Say what is on your mind, Carpy, we don't have the luxury of time.” I think I was a bit sharp with him, but he met my eyes.

"Would you permit that I suggest to the Colonel that I be given the full time duty of protecting Mrs. Brewster. I could sleep at your bedroom threshold to safeguard your being.” He shyly lowered his eyes. “That is if this meets with your approval."

"You would do that? Of course it meets with my approval. The Colonel will feel better knowing he has a trusted man on the job. Yes, you suggest that to him. I'm sure he will approve."

I knew he would be angry, very angry. His last words were an order that I would leave the city with my mother. It is about time he learned that I don't take orders.

I heard his horse galloping in the street. As he drew to a stone scattering halt at the door, I was waiting for him. Another rider cantered in our direction. I recognized Carpy's mount.

Evan was like a bull, so angry his face was red with rage. The foul weather did nothing to improve his mood.

"Are you trying to kill that poor animal, Sir?” I tried to sound as angry as he looked.

"You would do well to be concerned for your own safety, Madam!” His eyes were afire, his fist held the bridle of the frightened horse. His fury was barely under control. “What do you mean by defying my instructions? You will pack and prepare to leave this minute."

Carpy dismounted, taking Galahad's lead from my husband, he led both horses to the nearly vacant carriage house out of the rain. I could read nothing in his stern face.

"Come inside, the world need not know of our conflict.” He opened his mouth to protest, but knew I was right. He followed me through the door into the parlor. The ticking of the mantle clock filled the still air. When I turned, Evan was pulling the riding gloves from his hands. He did not remove his coat.

"I have told you, I will not leave.” I tried to be calm, but my heart hammered out fear. “I am needed here. You are here. And my place is here with you. Do you plan to leave?"

"Of course not. I have a duty...” His voice was calmer, but the words were filled with impatience. “Damn it woman, your duty is to obey your husband, and I want you to go to a safe haven."

My own anger grew, so it was “my duty to obey". I did not speak for fear of what I might say.

"Be reasonable, if you stay, I will have another worry. Do you not think I have enough? This house will be filled with strangers that I must house and feed. If I allow you to stay, I will not be able to give my whole attention to my duties. I cannot come when there is trouble.” He held my shoulders and looked into my eyes. With a deep sigh, he drew me against his chest and held me tight in his arms. I breathed deeply of the wet wool and mix of smells that were him, horses, leather, cigars, stale whiskey, the smells of a man.

Softly I answered his plea. “Forgive me, my husband, I don't mean to cause you more worry, but I feel my duties as a wife and woman call for me to do what little I can to bring comfort to our wounded and dying.” I looked up into his face. The beard and mustache were caked with mud from the rain and dirt of the road. “I must stay. If you can spare the Corporal, he has offered to be by at my side and protect me."

His face softened. “He has told me. I'm afraid I have accused him of having designs on what is mine."

"You did WHAT?” My mood turned black. How could he say such a thing? But he was quick to soothe my feelings.

"I know, I know. I was being unfair. I trust you ... I trust you both. The Corporal has been loyal and chose to stay with me rather than follow his yearning to join the regulars.” Evan released me and started to replace the worn gloves. “You can stay for now. But I will insist that you prepare your cart for travel and have it at the ready. If I send word that you are to leave, you are to go at once and Carpstairs with you. At night he will sleep at your door, in the hall. I will see to the provisions for the house and those who stay here, but you are NOT to play the hostess. These are not gentlemen. They are soldiers with war and killing on their minds. They are use to taking what they want. I will give the Corporal his orders as I leave, and you are to obey them and him ... or I will throw you in a wagon, and I will personally see that you are taken somewhere safe."

His hands on his hips, he looked down at me as if I was a wanton child. As perhaps I am. “Does this meet with the lady's approval?” I could see the flicker of a smile, his anger gone, for now.

"It does, Sir. Thank you.” I stood on my toes to kiss him.

He quickly went to the door. “It may be some time before I can come home again. Send Carpstairs if you have a need I can fill ... and be safe,” he added as he went into the rain. I reached the door as Carpy was ordered to get the Colonel's horse. Evan turned back to look at me. His mouth opened as if to say something, he closed it again with a shake of his head, smiling he came back to me and kissed my forehead.

"Ride slower on your return, lest you are reduced to walking,” I harped at him, as he approached his mount. “My thoughts and God be with you, Evan.” I turned and reentered the house before he could respond.

10 December 1862

Annabelle has remained. She has renewed her relationship with Carpy. Her brother, Simon is with Maxi, her father having died last year following her mother's loss to small pox, she is alone. Evan offered her a place in our home. We work together and talk of better times.

A battle is brewing. For some weeks now the Union armies have been encamped on the banks across the river. Their big guns look down at our small town. Evan sent word this morning that Carpy was to move me and Annabelle out of the town. He has arranged for us to work at the field hospital behind the Confederate lines. It seems that our town is to be a battle ground. I remember what you once told me, Kone. That more than one battle would take place in our little city. How many more battles can we survive?

General Burnside has held council at the Lacy Mansion for some time. General Lee watches over the city from a perch on Marye's Heights. Both their campfires can be seen at night.

Meggie, my mare, must have known that this day was more than an ordinary day at the hospitals where she can get fat on the grass that peeks out of the snow. She fought the harness on the pony cart as Carpy fastened the stays. Her pace was brisk and her step high, as she bounced like a young foal over the uneven dirt road.

Annabelle and I have been given a tent of our own far into the wooded area behind the hospital tents where the wounded from town have been moved. Carpy looks longingly at the troops gathered nearby.

11 December 1862

We woke to the pounding of shells, and crashing of explosions. The glaring bursts of light that should be a call to celebrate, bring instead unspeakable terror. I would that I could read this as the past and not have to live it as the present.

Thursday

It was still dark when the two couples piled into the small car. Brian and Joe finished packing the blankets, food and drinks in the trunk. The expedition started out.

"Why was it again that we had to leave so early?” Tracey groaned as she settled in the back seat, leaning back, she closed her eyes.

Joe kissed her waiting lips. He was rewarded with a small smile and a sleepy nod. Holding his wife's hand, Joe, dressed in the uniform of a Confederate soldier spoke to Connie, “Have you had any new ideas about your visit with the Union soldier at the Federal encampment?"

"No. I'm having trouble keeping the facts straight about Victoria and her family. I don't think I want to understand why I saw the Union corporal.” Connie fell silent as she tried to put what she knew into a logical order.

She thought of Victoria as a friend and it was hard to know that she disappeared during the war and was never heard of again. She wanted Connie to tell her what was in her future. Connie knew when Carpy died and how. She wouldn't be able to look at that young man without wondering what his children might have been like. Or his life with Annabelle? What he might have become if he had survived.

She knew a lot of men ... and women died during the four years of the war, and their lives were a great loss, but she didn't know any of them although she knew a lot about the Brentwells and Evan Brewster. She'd been living their lives with them for the past week. She had to know the rest. She felt compelled to find the missing pieces in Victoria's life. What happened to her? And who caused it to happen. Where does this Union Corporal fit in all of this?

There was no traffic as they neared the picnic grounds. As Joe and Brian discussed the best place to park, a deep rumble stirred the still air. Connie noticed the thick ground fog for the first time.

"Strange,” she said, “there wasn't any rain in the forecast, or fog either as far as that goes."

"Rain? What makes you think it's going to rain?” Tracey sat up taking in their surroundings.

"Don't you hear the thund...?” Connie realized the car had stopped. All three of her companions were watching her. “Come on guys. No fooling, you do hear it, don't you?"

"Sorry, not a cloud in the sky, and no fog. The only sounds are the early birds getting those worms.” Brian joked, but there wasn't any way anyone could ease her mind.

"You're kidding. I can't see the sky, it so foggy, I can't see anything outside the car.” She looked at their faces as she reached for her jacket. Not knowing how long she would be gone, she had taken the precaution of bringing an outer garment for warmth.

Knowing that her friends believed her and knew she wasn't crazy, was little comfort as she saw the doubt in their eyes. “Joe, it looks like I'll be joining you. I might even beat you there.” Could they hear the fear she felt? As many times as she had been in the past, Connie had never felt so afraid. Not for herself, she was afraid of what she would find out. What would happen to Victoria? Even working behind the lines at the hospital was dangerous. Evan had known it but felt it was as safe a place as any other during a battle.

"Get things ready for me. And if we can't hear each other use the code to send messages through Tracey and Brian. You won't be alone.” Joe smiled. “Boy, you've got some connections. Let's get unloaded before Connie's sucked into the past."

Even as the words were lost in the stuffy air of the car, Connie knew he was right. She felt herself leaving. The rest of the preparations were lost to her as she found herself no longer in the confines of the car.

Connie looked around. She was on a hill. The sloping banks blending with the dark of an early winter's morning. Behind her a level glade covered with trees provided protection for the hospital tents and ambulance wagons. She could make out the smaller tents behind the wards. They served as living quarters for the people working with the wounded. So this was where Victoria worked.

The “thunder” was louder. Looking behind her, toward the river, Connie could see flashes of light where the city lay hidden in fog. The shelling had begun. It was the eleventh of December. The close combat would start in two more days. Today the Union would start building the pontoon bridges across the wide river. They would be slowed by Barksdale's sharpshooters hidden in the houses. The cannon fire would continue on and off for most of the day, but there would be no fighting until the thirteenth. Tomorrow, the twelfth, the Federal army would finally cross into the deserted town. In frustration and to avenge their anger they would loot and destroy many of the buildings before their commanders could return order. Connie watched in wonder as history unfolded around her.

Trying to get her bearings, she looked around. Wisps of fog clung to the hillside below, but the trees around were clear. She tried to remember what the lay of the land was in her own time. All she could recall was a dense fog. She would have to trust Brian and the Handleys to see that she didn't get hit by a car or wake up perched in a tree. They wouldn't have an easy job if there were buildings where the woods were now.

Connie moved along the ridge. Looking to her left she could see the tents of the hospital two hundred yards away. Straight ahead were Stonewall Jackson's troops. The woods that interrupted the Confederate line were swampy and thought impassable. Connie looked at the tangle of trees and undergrowth. She imagined the small contingency of Pennsylvania's finest that penetrated the barrier and made their mark. Thinking about the history of the area had a calming effect on Connie. It helped to put the events in the past where they belonged.

The campfires were cold. Movement and quiet voices in the big hospital tents told her that the guns were waking the camp. Being drawn by activity to her right, Connie moved over the rough ground, gliding over stones and roots. Soldiers ran from their tents, carrying rifles, heading for the protection of the ridge.

The hushed voices drifted up to her from behind and below. Turning Connie walked until she saw several shadowy clusters of people.

One voice found its way to her ears. “So many are lost. What is it that makes men kill each other? They say not, but they do seem to enjoy the power conflict brings to them. Evan is in his element. He glories in the power he welds.” A solder who had been standing close by approached Victoria from behind, leaning forward he spoke softly to her and moved discretely out of hearing when she nodded.

Connie slid nearer. “...he is so kind and I know he cares for me, but I feel an emptiness, not contentment or happiness. Am I evil, Annabelle?"

Not noticing her before, Connie saw Victoria's companion's face framed by the dark hood from her cloak when the tall girl turned to answer her friend. They started the walk back up the steep slope, making their way over the frozen ground.

"You are not evil, Victoria. You are kind, perhaps too kind. You give everything and keep nothing for yourself. Mr. Lincoln is evil for starting this war. And General Burnside for doing his bidding.” Annabelle stopped when she realized that her friend was no longer beside her.

Victoria stood still staring up the hill. She watched as Connie waited, then bowing her head back to the slippery ground, she continued walking, making no explanation to her companion.

Carpy waited for the couple to pass his position, following some distance behind.

"Have I told you Max is back with his unit? I fear for him. Papa has been to visit several times since the army arrived. His time is taken treating the ill. Many suffer from insect bites and careless injuries, but the illness that sweeps through the army put more soldiers in bed that bullets have.

"He is concerned for General Lee. It seems he is suffering from the stress of this long war. Have you heard from Simon?” Victoria eyes concentrated on the rough ground.

Connie watched and listened.

"Not for over a month. The last post we received, there were three letters. He was well then."

As they passed Connie's position, Victoria glanced in her direction. The sadness in her eyes aged her beyond her young years.

Turning back to watch the flash of the explosions that followed the drum of the cannon fire, Connie fought back tears of frustration. Quickly glancing behind her she watched as the dark figures merged with early morning darkness. The ground shifted under her feet as Connie moved in time. With her eyes closed she tried to maintain her footing on the unstable hillside.

The first things she noticed were the smell of honeysuckle and dew wet grass. The second were the sounds of birds and small animals hunting for their breakfast, they were excited by the presence of humans. The third was the strong arm that supported her. Knowing she was safe and in her own time, Connie allowed herself to relax.

"Bring her over here.” Tracey led the way to a picnic table where Brian eased Connie down on the narrow bench.

"Sorry about that folks. Just give me a minute.” She smiled her thanks to Brian, softening his frown with a squeeze of his hand.

Looking around she saw Joe. “She's here, Victoria and her friend Annabelle.” After a pause Connie words were thoughtful. “I think it was at the first day of shelling. There weren't any signs of fighting.” She thought of the absence of bodies, and the quiet tension of the two women.

"Where were the shells hitting? Could you tell?” Joe's eyes were bright, as he marveled as Connie's trip.

"It seemed to be concentrated to the South ... I see what you're getting at. Yes, it could have been the attempt to lay the pontoons.” She turned to the others. “Barksdale's Massachusetts sharpshooters delayed them in spite of the shelling aimed directly at their positions."

Connie shivered. “It's strange to see history being lived.” Turning, she looked at Brian, “We can talk later,” she said softly. “Let's get the stuff out of the car and find a place to settle in.” The sun was lighting the sky, burning the dew from the grass, as they gathered the food and blankets. Connie was only half listening to the light chatter. Her thoughts were in Victoria's world. The sun wouldn't burn away the fog that covered the ground below Marye's Heights for a few hours yet.

"Let's go further up the hill.” Joe led the way through the open field above the parking lot. They each struggled under their burdens. Tracey and Joe talked excitedly in anticipation of Joe's coming adventure, while Brian and Connie followed quietly behind.

"Are you sure you'll be okay? You're pretty quiet.” Brian watched Connie's solemn face.

Glancing at him, Connie nodded with a short jerk of her head. “Yeah, I'm okay. I just wish..."

"This looks like a good place.” Joe waited for the others to agree, before putting the cooler under a massive weeping willow near the top of the rise. “We'll be grateful for the shade later and it's far enough away from the tourist route, we should be left alone."

"Looks good, Joe,” Brian agreed. “I could use some of this coffee. Where are the cups?” He held the big thermos while Tracey took a stack of Styrofoam cups out of a large canvas bag.

"There are breakfast rolls to go with that coffee,” she added as she opened the hamper.

Joe and Brian spread the blankets next to each other before the food was passed around. Connie sipped the strong liquid, ignoring the sweet roll next to her.

"You have to eat, Connie, it's going to be a long day,” Brian broke into her meditation.

Smiling weakly, Connie picked up the plate and tore a corner of the pastry off, putting it into her mouth. Even though the fresh roll was bland, she nodded in agreement. She washed it down with a swallow of coffee before trying to speak.

"I didn't call to you. Victoria was walking with Annabelle and a soldier. I suppose he was Carpy. I didn't want to startle her."

Connie pointed out where the encampment was and where she had seen the two women. She told Brian where she would be going on the next trip. She wanted to see the hospital tents.

By the time she was finished, Connie was surprised to see she had eaten the entire roll and her cup was nearly empty. “I need a refill.” She held out her cup.

"Feeling better?” he asked.

Sitting on the blanket overlooking the town, her legs crossed at her ankles, Connie blew gently across the cup of hot liquid. “Yes, it helps to know you have some contact and maybe some control. It still bothers me that I don't know what day I will appear in. I could arrive too late and miss something important. Somehow I feel there's a reason for me to be there.” A shiver of apprehension, or was it excitement, shook her. Connie looked at Joe. “Keep an eye out for me, and I'll watch for you. I would like to see if we can see and hear each other."

Joe nodded. “Me too. We could be opening a whole new branch of science."

"You never know.” Connie smiled at her co-traveler before taking several mouthfuls of the quickly cooling coffee, and looked at Brian and Tracey. “I want to be as free as I can be. Short of walking into a solid wall or off a cliff, and coming back while I'm there, I want you to let me go where I have to.” She waited for their agreement, especially watching Brian. Connie knew the doubts he had, but she trusted his instincts.

A smile and squeeze of her hand gave her what she needed. She returned both with a soft, “Thank you."

Tracey looked at Joe. “That's the way we work it. I've never told him, but I'm scared to death the whole time he's gone. I wear running shoes and pack a drinking bottle so I can keep up and won't have any reason to take my eyes off him.” The married couple's eyes locked.

Joe bent to give his wife a loving kiss and hug. “She's been a rock.” He'd tried to lighten the mood; instead the four were silent, each with his or her own thoughts.

Never taking his eyes off of Connie, Brian's quiet voice broke the spell. “How do we start?"

"I don't know,” Connie voiced her uncertainty. She drained the remaining coffee and put the cup aside.

"Well, when I'm ready, I just think about Jeremy, and ... well, it just happens.” Joe shrugged. “You slip back so easily, I don't think it should be a problem."

Connie nodded, and butterflies began their dance in her stomach. She decided it was good to be afraid; it would sharpen her sense of self-preservation. Unconsciously she twisted the interwoven bands of the ring she wore on her pinkie finger. The antique ring made her think of her ancestor, Mandi Kosgrove. According to the stories she had heard, Connie knew Mandi had been a strong woman, both in body and mind, and her ring bought that strength to Connie. “I'll give it a try,” she said. Standing, Connie walked toward the sun filled field, pushing aside the drooping fronds of the giant tree. Knowing Brian would be close behind, she walked to the top of the hill and looked west.

The remains of a long trench was still evident on the west side of the rise. Connie knew that it had been a highway of sorts. Dug and used by Stonewall Jackson to move troops and supplies from one position to another during the battle without exposing them to gun fire, a change in tactics for an aggressive fighter not in the habit of being on the defensive. Beyond the trench lay the gentle slope where the field hospital had been and the wooded area, although it had been cleared leaving only the largest of the trees still standing. Connie remembered studying the ambrotypes of the area and from what she saw this morning, she tried to pick out landmarks. The scene before her started to take shape. She could see the clearing as it must have appeared to the photographer a hundred forty years ago.

The dreamlike vision became solid. Soldiers sat behind the rise sharing their meager supplies of tobacco and food while they talked nervously. A few wrote on whatever scraps of paper they could find. Some of the more seasoned slept as they all waited for the battle they knew was coming.

They were close enough to touch, but Connie's eyes were glued to the large tents set up below. Men and women hurried between them, occupied by the business of tending to the sick. There were those suffering from disease as well as wounds to be taken care of.

North of the hospital tents, a large fire with a kettle set over its flames, marked a cooking area. The wagons filled with what meager supplies were available sat nearby. Horses and mules chomped listlessly at the short tuffs of brown grass poking through the thin layer of icy snow.

Looking behind her, toward the river, Connie saw a shroud of fog engulfing the area. The guns on Stafford Heights rained their death over the empty fields, well short of the dug-in Confederate troops. It was the day of battle. Turning back, Connie was frantic to find her friend.

As she scanned the area, her eyes searching for the dark green cloak, Connie saw Victoria emerging from the living quarters behind of the big tents, Carpy close behind. Annabelle waved from one of the wards. Victoria waved back, and reached down to lift the hem of her heavy cloak above the slush and snow. Her steps faltered, she stopped and the young Corporal almost ran into her. They spoke briefly. Connie couldn't tell what was said, but she could see Victoria put her hand on the soldier's arm, as she spoke to him.

The Corporal turned to study the area around them carefully, before nodding and leaving his charge to go toward the cook fire, looking back several times as he walked. Victoria continued walking toward her friend, but her eyes were turned to scan the hill above. She stopped as she caught sight of Connie. Pushing her hood back she watched as Connie began picking her way through the troops. She easily jumped over the trench, and started to glide down the hillside.

The inside of the tent was dark, lit only by the sun burning through the heavy canvas. Victoria still wore her cloak as did Annabelle. Connie could see their breath and that of their patients, their bodies covered by thin blankets and the tattered remains of their own outer garments. The fire burning in the potbelly stove in the center of the tent burned off the worst of the cold.

"I have asked Carpy to see if there is anything hot to give the men. Have you been up all night, Annabelle?” She went to the other woman.

Annabelle nodded. “I wanted to be near if any should call out. It was a quiet night, but I could not sleep.” She rubbed her fingers against her temples. “I fear that the fighting will start soon. Some of the men that were down at the river brought news that the Federals have entered the city and are grouping to attack. They have burned houses and taken everything not already broken.” Tears started to fall from her dark eyes. “I am so afraid, Victoria. What is to become of us all?"

Victoria put her arm around her friend and led her to the tent entrance. “You need to get some sleep, Annabelle. If as you say the fighting starts soon, we will need all the hands we can find to help, and you must be rested.” She pointed toward the distant cook fire. “Look, Carpy has found something hot to drink. You will take some with you to our tent and you will sleep."

Carpy agreed to walk with Annabelle, carrying a tin cup of steaming tea, made of plant roots. Taking the second cup and the heavy tin pot, Victoria went to the small chest of items that she and Annabelle were able to bring along from their homes. She took out a heel of bread and a long bladed knife that had been worn thin with many years of sharpening.

"Every man in the tent well get a piece of bread and cup of tea. It is a small thing, but it must be enough. Annabelle brought some venison jerky. We will boil it and feed the broth to them this evening. Some of the town's people provided dried fruit and vegetables. We keep them in our tents for the sick and wounded. They cannot get well without food for strength, if we kept it here, it would go to some officer's table.” Her voice was almost a whisper, but Connie could hear every word. She followed and watched as Victoria stopped at each bunk, and talked to the man lying there. She asked each if he had received word from his wife, or parents, if he would like to send a letter, and promising to return to write it for him. Some asked about the fighting, if it had started yet, and if it was a good day for a battle. She would answer, “No, but it will be soon.” and “Is there ever a good day for a battle?"

She would sometimes have to soak the bread in the tea so it could be swallowed, but all took the offering eagerly as they listened to the woman's voice.

"I must start cleaning my patients, Kone. It is a difficult chore, one that robs them and me of all modesty, but it must be done."

Connie reached out, not quite touching the other woman, but close enough to get her attention. “I wish I could help. It's important that you keep them and their wounds clean. They will heal faster and feel better while they are ill."

Taking her cloak off, Victoria filled a large bowl with hot water from one bucket, tempering it with cold from another. Putting a rough linen cloth over her arm, she took a cloth and cake of homemade lye soap and walked to the last bunks in the tent.

She's a natural. Connie watched her work, talking in quiet tones that only that patient could hear as she washed the man's body, then cleaned and redressed wounds and body sores, talking or singing to distract him from her task. She left with a promise to return with pencil and paper for a letter, or a book to read aloud, or just to visit. The medications she gave were no more than headache powders, she put sulfur on the wounds and suave on the sores, but her words and acts of kindness did more than these could accomplish.

The sun was well up when the job was done. Victoria joined Connie at the tent's open flaps. She pushed her sleeves down over arms pink with cold.

"Come with me.” Connie led the way. The men were eagerly watching over the earthworks, their backs turned. “Keep your head down and stay behind the rocks. I think this is something you should see.” She said the words before walking ahead to the trench. Victoria found a way down and an outcropping of tree roots to aid her climb to the other side. She crouched behind the stone wall and looked slowly over the top, all the time accepting the good hearted remarks from the excited men of General Hill's command as they made room for her. She watched for some time, asking questions of the soldiers and shaking her head in disbelief.

Connie stood beside Victoria and watched the sea of blue uniforms line up at the foot of Marye's Heights. Lambs ready for slaughter.

Victoria jerked, crying out with surprise. Carpy stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder and fire in his eyes. “Woman, do you want me to be shot?” Carpy's face was red with anger. “Did you send me away that you might come up here and bring yourself to harm?"

"I did no such thing.” Victoria's face flushed at being scolded like a child. “Who do you think..."

"I will tell you who I am. I am a soldier in your husband's company and under his strict orders. If he finds you here, on the firing line, he will indeed have me shot, but not before he exacts his own more painful punishment.” Taking her arm, the Corporal pulled Victoria to the trench road and helped her cross it. “If I cannot trust you to stay at the hospital tents, then I will have to ask the Colonel's permission to take you somewhere out of harm's way."

Victoria took the tongue lashing with her head bent. When the angry words had reached an end, she looked up, tears shining in her eyes. “I'm sorry, Carpy, I didn't think. I wanted to see for myself what was going on."

"And have you seen enough? Or do you want me to take you down into the streets? You could see the Blue Coats up close."

Pulling back from the harsh words, Victoria spoke softly. “I promise I will not venture out on my own again. Carpy, these men need me. Don't tell Evan, or he will surely make me leave, Annabelle and I are their only comfort.” She stopped, waiting for his reply.

The soldier's mouth was a straight angry line, his eyes burned with rage. The sight of such fury chilled Connie. Just as amazing was the effect Victoria had on him. His mouth softened and the red spots on his cheeks paled.

"You frightened me. I saw your head over the wall, and I imagined I could hear the shot that would end your life ... and mine.” His voice was shaking.

Connie felt a pang of guilt at having encouraged Victoria, even though she knew the charge across the fields would not start for several hours yet. The cannon duel between Federal cannons and a young man under Stuart named Pelham had just begun. Shells tore into the swamp, bringing death closer. Soon the first of Meade's men would start through the swamp and succeed in cutting through Hill's lines. But without backup from Franklin's Corp, they would be driven back to the river, leaving many wounded and dead behind.

"You will go into the hospital tent and stay there. I will find Annabelle and bring her there. You will both be safer and when the wounded start coming, you will both be needed.” Carpy didn't wait for her reply, but left her standing at the opening.

"You knew that I wouldn't be hurt.” Her words were directed at the shadowy figure inside the misty shell that had followed her back across the clearing.

"I knew you would be safe for a little while yet,” Connie agreed. She had known, but she wasn't pleased with her actions, she could have changed history if things had gone wrong. Maybe one of the soldiers she would have otherwise helped, might have died and his lineage with him. No, from now on, she would allow Victoria to go her own way. Connie shivered, not from cold but from fright. Why was she here?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of two soldiers. They clung to each other for support as they made their way to the tent nearest the cook wagon. At the operating tent several nurses went to help them inside. Victoria watched. “It has begun. I have seen many wounded and sick, but I have not before heard the cannons so close. What else am I to experience before this day is over?"

"I wish I could tell you, Victoria,” Connie said as she watched the young woman go into the ward tent to write letters, and read poetry until the fighting brought them more broken men to patch up. “But I really don't know."

Connie glided over the frozen ground into the woods. The ground cover was thick off the narrow pathway, but a short distance in she found a clearing where tents had been put up to house some of the nurses and doctors. Carpy helped Annabelle emerge from one of the tents. Looking around the clearing first, he bent and kissed her waiting lips.

"You are not still angry with Victoria, are you, Rollin? She doesn't mean any harm.” Annabelle held him as she looked into his eyes.

"I was frightened. What if she had been hurt? Or if the Colonel had seen her? Even now, if he hears of her action, it will be me that he takes his anger out on. He left her in my care.” Pushing a wayward strand of hair from Annabelle's forehead, he smiled down at this, the girl he still loved. “How can I stay angry at her? It was she that brought us back together. I was so stupid to leave you.” He stayed her protest with another kiss. “It doesn't matter. We are together and we will always be together. This war is sure to end soon. It will be won and we will be married."

Connie watched as they walked with their arms around each other, lost in each other's eyes. He would be dead within a year and she would marry Evan just months afterward. I'm glad they at least have this time together.

Heading back toward the shelling, Connie tried to see through the mass of trees and underbrush. The lone gunner would soon pull back having run out of shells, and the Union soldiers would surge forward, unknowingly attacking the only venerable spot in the Rebel line, the swamp. The sporadic rifle fire increased to a steady volley. Connie was frozen to the spot. She watched as blue uniforms picked their way through the icy water and mud. Many fell never to rise again. Some writhed on the ground in pain. Blood blossomed in dark red patches on arms, legs and chests. As she watched a Confederate soldier fell backwards, a neat round hole above his right eye. Connie felt faint. It's not real ... not real, she tried to convince herself.

"BATTLE SWAMP,” she said, loudly hoping Brian would hear.

No, it's me; I'm not real, not in this time. She felt herself falling but didn't feel the ground, only the strong embrace that held her.

"Are you all right?” The warm breath from his words caressed her cheek. Connie nodded.

"This is becoming a habit.” She opened her eyes to see Brian's face close to hers.

He smiled as he leaned over, kissing her tenderly.

"Where are the Handleys?” she asked, when he let her speak.

"Who cares?” His reply was followed by another kiss, and another.

Connie allowed herself to be swept away. She could handle this. Her head spun, but this time it wasn't from tripping. She had thought she was in love with Phil, and maybe she had been, but this was different. No, I have to take this slow. Reluctantly she pulled away.

"Brian, I have to go back. The battle was just getting under way. I have a feeling that it's important I be there."

"I heard you say ‘battle swamp'. Is Victoria in danger?"

"I don't know, I don't think so. But someone is and Victoria may be able to help.” Connie turned in Brian's arms to look through the thin stand of trees. The ground was no longer swampy and overgrown. “Maybe I can find out what this is all about.” She looked back at his handsome face, marred by worry lines. “Hey, you'll be here, right? I can't be shot, or hurt by shrapnel. No one but Victoria will see me. The danger isn't toward me, as long as you're there to keep me from falling or ending up encased in a monument. And if I faint again, you'll have a good reason to catch me."

His scowl deepened. “I know I can't stop you. But you have to promise to be careful."

"You know I will. I'm as afraid as you are, probably more. I'll be all right as long as I know you're watching over me.” Connie turned again and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him hard and holding him tight.

"I hope it's enough,” he whispered into her hair. “I want this to be a beginning for us, not an end."

With one last quick kiss, Connie released Brian and stepped back, staggering a little from the remaining dizziness. “I want to go behind the lines and make sure everything is all right there. Since Victoria is the only person...” She paused, remembering. “The soldier. Brian, what about the Union corporal, he could see me.” Connie watched with fascination as Brian faded and the trees and underbrush grew dense.

The fighting had passed the spot where Connie stood. She moved through the bodies trying not to hear or see the harsh reality of the fight. Fear that maybe Victoria is in danger after all, drove her on, past the pleading voices, and groans of pain.

She glided through the last dense stand of trees and brush to find herself looking down into the trench, now busy moving men to the hot spot of the battle that moved in behind her.

Far beyond the trench were the trees that sheltered the hospital and living quarters for the hospital personnel, Connie could make out the shadowy outline of the nearest tent. Surely Victoria would be working with the wounded now that the fighting had started. Turning she studied the approaching violence. That was where she was drawn, not to the hospital, but to the battle. Could it be that the Union soldier was calling her? That it was him all this time? No, Victoria was her contact. The Corporal was a recent addition to the puzzle. But something held her at this battle. Something...

A cluster of Confederate soldiers backed through the brush. Turning, they scrambled down the bank into the trench below. Shouts rose from the swamp they had just left. Shots were fired. Some impacted the trees nearby. Without thinking Connie ducked. She shook with fear.

As the Union Blue broke cover, yelling and shooting as they gained the top of the grade, Confederate reinforcements flooded over the crest. The Rebel battle cry sent a cold chill through Connie. It was as blood curdling and indescribable as told in legend.

The two armies came together with a crash, at first neither yielded and neither seemed to gain the advantage. Many bodies fell on both sides. Then, slowly, the flow of combat changed, the butternut uniforms started to push the blue coats back toward the swamp. In their wake, they left a trail of the dead and dying.

Connie didn't recognize him right away. All she could distinguish were the disturbing sudden appearances of blood on the clothing and bodies of the men in front of her as they fell. Andrew was in a fight for his life. He struggled with a bearded soldier wearing a tattered brown coat and holding a large deadly hunting knife in his right hand, its lethal blade inches from the smaller man's face. Andrew's own right hand held a bayonet pointed at the lean body he held at bay.

Her first instinct was to go to his aid. It was only with the greatest effort that she held back, waiting with her hands clutched into fists at her throat. If she made a sound, Andrew would hear. The distraction might kill him. She watched with horror as the blade moved closer to the pulsating vein. Bending backwards, the Corporal pressed his own weapon forward while avoiding his enemy's. Both men lunged at the same time.

Connie's hands flew to her face as she screamed.

The Confederate's right side was to her as the men turned, she watched as he bent forward, drawing his bloody knife back. Connie couldn't see the wound that caused the Rebel pain, but she could see the anger on his face. He raised his weapon, intended to inflict more damage, but fell on his face too weak to continue the fight.

Andrew, too, fell to his knees, brought down by the weight of the man holding on to him, the bayonet in his hand covered with rebel blood, but he was weakened by his own wound. The sleeve of his coat grew dark with blood.

Connie didn't see the approaching threat until it was too late. A Confederate officer bore down on the wounded Corporal. As he neared, he raised his musket, unwilling or unable to use a musket ball to put an end to the life presented to him, he deliver a blow using the butt of his weapon, to the enemy's head.

Andrew fell backwards without uttering a word. The head wound added its own stream of red that filled his left eye and trickled down the side of his face on to the ground. Without looking back, the officer moved on, shouting orders and encouragement to his men.

Stunned, Connie watched with horror. She knew this man. Twisted with pain, his face had become that of an old man. A yellowed photograph flashed in her mind. Where had she seen it? In a book? A museum? An art show? She couldn't remember, but as sure as she was that she was watching the Battle of Fredericksburg, she was sure that she had seen a photograph of the Union Corporal lying on the ground in front of her.

He wasn't dead. He couldn't be. Moving before she knew the thought was in her mind, Connie went to the semiconscious man. Leaning close, she felt the chill of fear. He can't be dead.

"Andrew, can you hear me? Andrew!” she shouted to the dying man. “You have to hear me. Andrew!"

His head moved but stopped as a groan escaped the injured man. With an effort Connie could only imagine, he opened his right eye, the left now swollen shut and covered with blood from the open cut.

Pushing the words from between his clenched teeth, Andrew squinted to see her through the pain. “So this is what you are. You are Death. You have come for me.” The words brought resignation to a fate the soldier had decided waited for him.

"No! I am not Death. I am trying to help you live. You must stop the bleeding from your arm.” Her words were commanding and urgent, but they fell on deaf ears.

Closing his eye, Andrew drifted from her. “I cannot help myself. If you are not Death, than leave me and let Death come and finish the job that the Rebels have started."

A dread she didn't recognize fell over Connie like a shroud. He must not die. She had seen pictures of him as an old man, still bearing the scars of this war, of this battle. He must live the life he was destined to live.

Fighting the sudden light headedness that threatened to make her useless, Connie leaned close and shouted at the wounded man. “You are not going to die. Listen to me. You must stop the bleeding. Use your right hand to keep pressure on the wound."

When he made no move to obey her, Connie fought her helplessness. “DO IT!” she shouted. “I can't do it for you. You HAVE to stop the bleeding."

Finally he moved, compiling with her demand. His right hand reached for and held his bleeding upper left arm.

"Hold it as tightly as you can. I'll be right back with help. You have to fight, Andrew, you have to fight for the children you will father.” Connie didn't know why she thought the young soldier would father children, but the words did their work. She saw the determination in the bloody face, as it had been while he fought the man who now lay dead at his feet.

Good, at least he was going to fight. Standing, her head clear again, Connie started up the incline toward the hospital complex. She would find Victoria.

Shouting, she told Brian where she was going. As she neared the tents, Connie shouted for Victoria. Would she be able to hear her? She had to try.

Annabelle came through the hanging tent flap carrying a wood bucket by its rope carrier. She walked to the nearby woods. Stepping into the trees she emptied the bucket and leaned against a tree to rest. Connie hurried into the large ward as the flap was pulled back to make room for a stretcher bearing an unconscious man to be carried inside. The stretcher was quickly placed on the floor and the man lifted to one of the few remaining cots. Just as quickly, the stretcher-bearers turned and left.

Victoria noted the new arrival and Connie's presence at the same time. She moved to care for the wounded man. Bending over her charge she spoke softly, “I don't have time to talk to you.” Looking around at the moaning patients, she continued, “I don't know when I will. The fighting has just begun and there is much to do."

With a shaking hand Connie reached for Victoria. “You have to come with me. But you must come alone. Where is Carpy?"

Without stopping the care she was administering, Victoria whispered, knowing that those within hearing would think she was talking to her patient. “I cannot come with you. As you can see I have much to do. Carpy has joined the men on the line with a promise to come back to defend the ward if the enemy should show signs of succeeding."

"Victoria, listen to me.” The urgency in her friend's voice caused Victoria to look into Connie's face. “There's a Union Corporal in the swamp. He is dying. You have to help him."

"Kone, look around us. There are many soldiers dying here today and many more are already dead.” Seeing the despair in Connie's eyes she tried to make her see the uselessness of her request. “Why should I care if another Union killer dies? He will no longer be able to end the lives of our own boys.” She turned back to her duties, her eyes angry.

"He can see me,” Connie said and waited.

Victoria's hands stopped working for just a second, then she finished the job of securing the bandage and covered the patient with a quilt, one of the scant few remaining on a dwindling pile.

Annabelle came into the enclosure and put the bucket near the makeshift table at the door. “The battle has moved back into the swamp. I think we have driven them to the river."

"You weren't foolish enough to go over the hill, were you?"

Connie watched impatiently as the two women discussed the battle.

Finally Victoria started pushing her rolled sleeves down. “New wounded will be coming in. The surgery is already busy. We will have many to tend to this night. I will get the bread for supper.” Connie knew she referred to food for the men lying on the cots, not for herself or Annabelle. “When they next come by, tell the corps men to bring the broth. I gave them venison jerky this morning. I must rest and take in some fresh air."

"We will look after them, my friend, you should try to sleep. You look weary.” Annabelle watched Victoria put her dark cloak over her blood splattered apron.

When she turned to make the journey down the rows of cots, Victoria took a handful of rolled bandages before slipping through the tent opening.

"Show me the way, Kone, and be quick before I have time to think better of this folly."

Hesitating only briefly as she heard the popping of distant shooting, Connie realized it was indeed folly for her to take Victoria onto a battleground. Although there was no danger to herself, there was a very real danger to Victoria. It was too late to back down. She had to lead the way into the swamp.

"Keep your head down,” Connie commanded.

They moved as quickly as they could. Victoria no longer held back, instead she urged Connie forward. “Hurry, we must move him to safety. If he is found, they will kill or imprison him ... which is the same thing for he will surely die of his wounds. If I am seen here it will not go well for me. My husband...” She shook her head and pushed through the thick underbrush plunging into the swamp.

Connie pointed in the direction she had come and the two moved further down the grade and deeper under the shelter of the trees. For one moment fraught with panic, Connie wasn't sure where she was. Had she come this far? Had they passed the man they were looking for? Victoria stopped many times to see of any of the men lying on the damp frozen ground were alive. To one who was, she gave encouragement. Telling him to find his way over the ridge and to seek help there, for his wounds were not too severe. She didn't stay to see if he took her advice, but she motioned Connie to continue.

They heard the moan at the same time. Following the sound Victoria lead the way to their right. When she saw the faded blue through the brush, Connie was flooded with relief.

Kneeling next to the pale body, Victoria asked, “Is this the one?"

"Yes, his name is Andrew.” Connie nodded as she watched Victoria gently remove the clutching fingers from the bloody wound, the familiar whisper of comfort drifted back to where she stood.

Was this the reason she was drawn back in time? If it was, then it was over. The disturbing panoramas from the past and the unexplained time travel would end. With a start, Connie realized that she was saddened by the thought ... but she was still here. If this was the reason, perhaps it wasn't the only reason.

Kneeling next to the couple, Connie spoke softly, “You have to move him. He can't stay here. Soon the army will move back, bringing their own wounded and neither he nor you can be found."

Never taking her eyes from the man in front of her, Victoria agreed. “I know. I will use my cloak to drag him.” Making sure the bandage was secure she prepared to stand.

"Are you an angel, too?” The deep whisper startled the young woman.

The soldier watched Victoria as she smiled down at him. “No, I am not an angel. And soon you will want to curse me for the pain I will cause. You are too weak to walk, and I am not strong enough to carry you.” Getting to her feet, Victoria took her garment off and spread it on the ground next to the Corporal. “You will have to roll onto my cloak and I will pull you, but we have to hurry."

"I can't let you do this. Help me up. I will walk.” The soldier reached up.

"You are too weak.” Seeing that the man wasn't going to do as she bid, Victoria took his hand and braced herself against his weight.

He groaned as he sat up. “Wait a minute, while my head clears."

Victoria went to her knees. “We don't have much time. The troops will return. If we are caught, we will both be shot."

The words worked like cold water splashed in his face. Lifting his good arm, Andrew pulled his left leg up and braced himself. Together they were able to put him on his feet.

"I have to get my cloak. It is well known and will be recognized if I leave it behind.” Victoria helped Andrew find purchase against a nearby tree, before she quickly retrieved and donned her garment. Putting herself under his good arm, she held him around his waist and started over the rough ground.

"Kone, will you go ahead and see that the way is clear?"

"Is that her name? Kone? Then you see her, too.” Andrew tried to turn in Connie's direction, his struggles causing Victoria some trouble in keeping her balance.

"We will talk of her later. You have to save your breath and what strength you have. The walk in not an easy one, and the more we talk, the more likely it is someone will hear us, so hush.” The stern look on the young face made Connie smile.

Hurrying ahead she looked for lingering or approaching troops. Checking often to be sure the couple was following, she knew she had done the right thing, but it wasn't over. Without knowing why she was sure of that, she still didn't know why she was the one chosen, but there was still something...

Connie heard voices and the crunch of snow and ice under foot. Quickly she held up her hand. The couple behind stopped, the trees were quiet except for the distant sounds of a waning fight. Two Confederate soldiers walked in the trench at the edge of the swamp. They didn't seem to have a destination or purpose, but stopped and leaned against the frozen rock and dirt bank.

One man took a pouch of tobacco from his knapsack. “Do you have any papers?” he asked the other.

"No, I used the last of them to write to my mother."

"I guess we chew it then.” He took a pinch of the brown leaves and put it in the corner of his mouth, offering the pouch to his friend.

Connie looked around desperately. She had to get them to move on. As her eyes searched for a solution, she was amazed to see a cloudy bubble form near the men in the ditch, as she watched the bubble became a mist and the mist became a man.

"Joe!” she shouted, a smile of relief filled her face. She knew Joe had seen her when he waved. Maybe he could help. First she turned to Victoria. “Stay where you are and be quiet. I'm going to get help.” Connie glided into the trench and approached Joe. He stopped her with a raised hand, stepping back as he did.

He was right; it could be dangerous for them to get too close. They had no idea what might happen. Maybe he could hear me. “I need to get these men to move on."

"No problem,” Joe answered. His voice was quiet and tinny but she could hear him. She retreated to her post at the head of the trench.

Joe moved in front of one of the soldiers and the man drew back in surprise. That man must be Jeremy.

"What's wrong?” his companion, the man with the tobacco, asked.

"Nothing, it's nothing. Let's get out of here. The place is crawling with strange things. Can't you feel it?"

Without comment the men followed as Jeremy led the way back to the base camp. Connie threw a kiss to the shadowy figure as Joe followed his reluctant friend. Calling softly, she motioned for Victoria and Andrew to move ahead.

As the couple entered the woods where the tents were set up, Connie looked back at the swamp and saw men coming out of the dense underbrush. Some were being carried, some helped, and some struggling on their own. The unhurt stopped to help the injured. No one noticed the man and woman walking in the shade of the trees ahead. Connie hurried to catch up.

The interior of the small tent was filled with muted light, the heavy canvas and surrounding trees allowing little more than was necessary to see. The struggling couple released strained puffs of visible moisture in the cold air with each breath. Victoria's head brushed the low ceiling as she tried to coax the injured man to one of the straw mattresses.

"Just a few more steps, then you can rest,” her soft voice encouraged, as her own efforts weakened. “Stay still. I must fetch water to clean your wounds. Don't talk or make any noise.” She turned quickly and taking a wash pan went to the creek nearby.

When she returned she pulled the tent flaps together against the winter chill. A quiet groan drew her to the wounded man. Using a cloth she washed the Corporal's bloody face. The musket had done a lot of damage, but it could have been worse. Instead of breaking the skull bone as it was meant to do, the butt had glanced off, leaving an open head cut. Seeing to the damage to his eye would have to wait until the swelling went down.

The bleeding in his arm was slowing, but the cut was deep. Gathering needle and horsehair that she had prepared, Victoria sewed the wound after cleaning it. It worried her that she could see bone at the bottom of the injury.

"Can you hear me, Andrew?” she spoke quietly.

His lips moved but only a small groan emerged.

"Kone, are you still here?” She waited for a response.

"Yes, what can I do to help?” Connie sat on the other side of the mattress. “I don't have the strength to lift in your time, but I'll do what I can."

"Watch him and keep him quiet. I will get some powders to lessen his pain.” Looking at her twentieth century friend, Victoria leaned closer. “Annabelle and I will be busy in the ward. I don't think Carpy or anyone else will have cause to stop here unless they hear sounds from an empty tent. I will try to have Andrew moved as soon as I can. I have friends that..."

"I know, the Weatherlys at the Blackstone Pub, I saw—” Connie said.

"Yes, the Weatherlys. I will contact Molly, and she and Zack will hide Andrew. They might be able to get him across the river to his own hospital.” Victoria narrowed her eyes. “How do you know of the Weatherlys? When do you see me at the Blackstone? It is not the type of place that a lady is likely to be seen."

"I've said too much, and I don't know any more. I will watch Andrew and keep him quiet until someone comes for him."

Gathering a basket of dried food and a bag of roots for tea, Victoria reluctantly left the tent, closing the flap as tightly as she could.

Her walk to the ward took an eternity. She thought she should be angry that Kone brought this danger into her life. But how could she? This man was injured and needed her help. And he saw her friend, he heard her. Who was this man that he could do this? Something else, a feeling? Something wouldn't let her abandon him. She knew her Papa would treat him as any other soldier wounded in battle, not a Union soldier, but he would be taken to the prison camp. She wouldn't let that happen. Molly would be working at the kitchen tent. Victoria would speak with her when she left the food for the ward.

Her steps quickened with determination.

Connie sat near the tent opening wishing with all her might that she could do more. Why was she here if she couldn't get water or start a fire to heat it, bring medicine to fight infection, or even put a cool cloth on a fevered brow? Her abilities in the past were limited to a light touch, movement and speech.

All Victoria had asked was that she keep the patient quiet. For how long? Connie had to go back to her own time.

A noise—was it from outside or inside—snapped her to full awareness.

"This is the tent, Zack. I came here to get food for the hospital yesterday. Between you with the rabbits and squirrels and the vegetables Victoria is able to gather, the hospital gets the best of the food.” The words were the husky whisper of a woman.

The tent flap opened. Connie inspected the couple in the threshold. They were both lean and of average height, stooping to get through the door, neither could stand upright except in the center. The woman's features were hard. Her eyes had felt more tears than laughter. The man was quiet, not saying a word, he chewed on a wad of tobacco, his narrow eyes darting everywhere, always alert.

"That's him. Be careful, he has head and arm wounds,” Molly instructed. “Take him to our tent for now."

Answering with a grunt, Zack pulled the quilt off of Andrew and reached to lift him.

Feeling the motion, Andrew flailed out with his good arm, fighting the man with more strength than Connie would have thought he had left. Quickly she went to his side.

"Andrew, these are friends. They'll hide you. Victoria will come to care for you and you'll get well and be safe.” She hoped she was telling him the truth.

Turning his feverish eye toward her, Andrew nodded weakly and allowed Zack to lift him to his shoulder.

Molly held the flap open and led the way to another tent nearby.

Connie watched until they were out of sight. She checked the area—they hadn't been seen.

Hurrying to the ward tent, she entered to find it packed with the wounded. The floors were covered with the bodies of men in pain or unconscious. Three more ladies had joined Annabelle and Victoria. They all worked feverishly to tend the soldiers.

Connie made her way through the beds and mats to Victoria. Without waiting to be recognized she told her briefly that Molly and Zack had taken Andrew to their tent.

Talking softly, Victoria didn't look up from her work but Connie could see the relief on her face. “He will be safe with them. I will take powders to him as soon as I can. He will be well ... won't he, Kone?"

"Yes, Victoria, he will, thanks to you.” Connie didn't know why she was so certain, but she was. “I have to go back to my own time now. But you will see me again, several times."

"You said I would see you at the Blackstone, what other times will I see you?” Victoria glanced quickly at her friend.

"I don't know for certain if there will be more, but I will see you at your father's grave many years from now. And you will...” Should she tell Victoria that she comes forward in time to see her? “Have a good life.” No, some things were better left unsaid. “I will continue to read the journal, maybe there will be another visit. For now I have to say good-bye."

"Good-bye, Kone. I will miss you. I don't know why you brought me to Andrew ... I first saw him this day, but I have known him all my life. I do not know his full name, but I do know that I want it to someday be mine. I do not know what witchcraft you perform, but I thank my God that you were here to perform it."

Connie left the tent feeling the loss of her friendship with Victoria. Stepping away from the tent, her arms wrapped around her against the cold, Connie walked through the woods toward the sound like thunder that made the ground shake. What had she done? Saved a life, and broke up a marriage all in one day.

She turned to watch the buzz of activity surrounding the hospital tents, wagons bearing wounded lined up to be unloaded. The scene faded as the sun's sharp rays burned away the cold.

Clarity returned to the field in front of her. Peace and tranquility replaced the havoc of war and death. Spring's rebirth replaced the dead of winter icy grip.

The transitions had been smooth, both leaving and returning. Connie felt only the slightest dizziness as the ground under her became firm. Staggering a little she reached for Brian's hand.

"...gone so long. Do you think she's all right?” Tracey asked.

"I'm fine, Tracey,” she answered for herself as she turned to face her friends, watching as relief relaxed their features.

"Boy, have I got a lot of questions for you,” Joe blurted out as his eyes sparkled with excitement.

"And I'll answer all of them, if you can get me some water.” Connie struggled to pull her emotions and mind back to the present and her own life. She looked up at Brian as she removed her jacket. Without a word he took her hand and led her down the slope to the blankets under the big willow.

Friday

The loud chatter of birds waking the sun and heralding the joy of living woke Connie. Before opening her eyes, she tried to make some sense from the confusion of dreams and real events. Had she dreamed the Battle of Fredericksburg? Had she really helped save the life of a Union soldier? The only things she was sure were real were the warmth of the quilt that covered her and the cool of the sheets she lay on.

The sting of the hot shower woke her, bringing back memories of her “trip” and the picnic the two couples had enjoyed afterward. A feeling of contentment and joy filled her as she remembered the feel of Brian's hand as he passed her a napkin, the sound of his voice as he asked questions about her visit to the past. She treasured his look of concern as she related the tension of that short walk to safety for Victoria and Andrew, and the sense of familiarity that embraced them through the afternoon, into the evening.

By the time she had rubbed her skin dry, Connie was humming softly and a smile brightened her face.

She wanted to go back to the Blackstone Inn. From the previous vision she had experienced she knew that Victoria went there and now she knew why. She would ask Brian to go with her.

Going to the chest-of-drawers, she stopped. Something was different. Connie looked around the nineteenth century room. What was she missing? Was something moved?

With a start she realized it was neither of those things. The room and all her things were as she had left them. The difference was in her. She wasn't experiencing the overlaps of time.

The change left an emptiness, a loss that was as real as the death of a loved one. Connie sat down hard on the edge of the bed. So that was that. The rescue of the Corporal Andrew something-or-other was the whole purpose of this experience. Was her life to resume, just like that? Was she to return to what was perceived as normal without any inkling of why or how it had happened in the first place? Who was Andrew, and why was his life so important that she would spend a week living in two worlds to save him? And why her? Why not Joe? Or anyone else, for that matter?

Her feelings of joy and contentment were pushed aside as Connie hurriedly dressed and left her room, and went down the steps. Instead of going to the dining room, she went out the front door half expecting to see horse drawn carriages and Confederate soldiers on the narrow street. She was disturbed to see the modern world around her.

It really was done then. Empty and sad, she went back inside. A week ago she'd wanted it to end, but a week ago she hadn't met Victoria and hadn't lived in her very real life.

Slowly walking to the coffee urn, she filled a cup and sat at the table to drink it and think.

"The plan was for you to get some sleep.” Brian filled the high-backed chair next to her.

Before she could reply, the kitchen door pushed open as Val backed into the room, a tray of sweet breakfast breads across her arms. “Good morning, Ms. Hart,” she nodded politely in Connie's direction then quickly shifting her bright smile to Brian, “Mr. Eckart."

As the door swung shut on the girl's departure, Connie smiled. “I think that girl has a crush on you, Mr. Eckart.” She smiled and batted her eyelashes at Brian.

"Well, you can rest assured I only have eyes for you.” Brian leaned forward in an attempt to kiss her, stopping at the startled look on Connie's face. He looked behind him, toward the parlor, expecting to see the Handleys standing in the doorway. Instead, the room was empty, at least to his eyes. “What do you see?"

"It's back. The Confederate officer's hat, and spurs in front of a blazing fire.” She told him quickly about the absence of the overlaid views from the past, and her disappointment. “But now I don't know. I was disappointed but relieved too. I think I just want this to end, and I want to get on with my life. I don't care if I don't have the answers to all of the questions.” Connie held the cup to her lips with trembling hands.

"What do you have planned to do this morning?"

Connie tore her eyes away from the fireplace hearth. “I had no plans, the article is done. I've given Betty a copy to read. All I need is her approval. I thought I would read the rest of the diary and see if Victoria would tell me what happened after I left, but now..."

"The reading can wait. You need to get out into the fresh air. First breakfast, then a long walk and some real sightseeing. We'll have lunch somewhere quiet, then find a place to talk.” Holding up a hand to stave off any objections, Brian went to the sideboard and refilled his cup before selecting a warm muffin for himself and at her request, he put a fresh baked biscuit on another for Connie.

"I'll agree if we can go to the Blackstone Pub for lunch."

"Are you sure? You know what happened last time."

"That's why I want to go back. I guess I do care that I don't have the answers."

They talked quietly over the light meal, deciding on a route to walk that would bring them to the Blackstone by the lunch hour. By the time they stepped out into the sunshine, Connie had regained her good mood of the morning and was determined to make the day a good one.

The heavy door closed with a soft swish as Brian led Connie to a small table in the far corner of the room. Even though the Inn had just opened, many of the tables were occupied.

"We'll have some privacy,” Brian said as he pulled a chair out for Connie.

The waitress, the same one who had waited on them Saturday, brought their drinks. As Connie brought the chilled pewter stein to her lips, her hand froze in mid-air.

Brian swallowed a mouthful of ale, swirling the liquid around in his mouth, like a wine taster, before swallowing and taking another drink. “Either that is good ale or I'm just very thirsty,” he commented, setting the metal cup on the paper coaster.

"What do you see?” His voice was quieter as he watched Connie's face. He knew it would do him no good to look at the spot that held her attention, but he glanced anyway. The bar was almost bare. Only three men sat on the high stools. Brian took them to be locals who stopped in for a drink on their lunch. Two sat together talking quietly and watching a baseball game on the small TV over their heads and drinking beer from bottles. The third kept watching the door as he sipped a mixed drink in a long stemmed glass. His patience was rewarded when a well-dressed middle-aged woman carrying a portfolio entered the room. They took a table on the other side of the broad fireplace, leaving only the two men and the bartender.

"Is she here?” Brian took the stein from Connie's hand and set it on the table.

"Yes, she's dressed in that Confederate uniform like before, and she's talking to Molly at the end of the bar. I think I'm going to trip because you're fading. You better not try to follow. Wait here..."

Connie knew she was in the nineteenth century again. Brian was gone. Gliding across the plank floor she followed Victoria and Molly through the heavy curtains.

A narrow staircase climbed the wall against the front side of the building. She had to stay in the past until she could return to Brian. Otherwise she might find that the staircase no longer existed, she could be trapped in a locked storage room, or worse, and more embarrassing, be caught in a room being rented by a tenant.

A door at the top of the steps opened into a hallway that followed the outside wall to the back of the building. Several doors lined the dark hall. As she debated on her next course of action, Connie heard muffled voices. She turned in their direction and moved as only a ghost can, without sound. The hall ended in an open storage room dimly lit by the light that filtered through the dusty windows, and were stacked with unmarked crates and barrels. Back tracking, Connie stopped in front of one of the few rooms boasting a door.

Seeing light leaking from around the dark plank, Connie knew she had found what she was looking for. She passed through into the small room. Voices came from behind still another stack of unmarked wooden crates.

"I have to get back downstairs, patrons are beginning to arrive. You can tell Andrew about the arrangements.” Connie recognized Molly's voice. She stood back when she hurried past.

"What arrangements is she talking about?” Andrew asked.

"You will be well enough to travel soon. The Federals have a hospital at Lacy House. Zack will arrange for a wagon to take you there,” Victoria's whisper was tense.

"My presence here has made your friends hostages. I do not wish to bring them, or you, trouble. Call the soldiers and have them take me."

"Stop that talk!"

Connie stood in the shadows watching the exchange.

"I did not risk my own life and limb bringing you to a secure place to heal, just to have you turn around and throw your life away. When you are well enough, we will see that you reach your own people.” The angry words spent, Victoria softened her tone as she held a steaming cup to the patient's lips. “Besides, as you say, if you are exposed now, and found to have been hiding in the Blackstone, Zack and Molly will both be taken as traitors and spies and most likely hung. And what of me? Will you have them throw me in prison, or hung next to the Weatherlys?"

Her skilled fingers worked to replace the soiled bandage on Andrew's head. Leaning back after removing the cloth, Victoria asked her charge, “Can you see from the damaged eye?"

In a matter of fact voice, the soldier answered, “No, all is a dark gray smudge. The pain is bearable, and I only teetered a bit when I stood by the bed this morning. I have no feeling in my arm and a fearful buzzing in my ear. Neither will be of much use to me."

Without reply, Victoria continued her work.

Connie turned to leave. She knew that both were safe and that seemed to be most important at the moment. Andrew's comments about his wounds lingered. Without knowing why, she knew that he would never see clearly from his left eye, or regain full use of his left arm, but Andrew would find some strength in it, and he would regain most of his hearing. Looking back at the couple, Connie wondered again why she felt such a close tie to them. In the woods yesterday, she had thought that saving the young man's life was the object of this entire experience, but why was she still able to fly back in time?

"There she is! Kone, the angel of death, although she denies it.” Andrew pushed himself up on the hard mattress and looked past Victoria at the spot were Connie stood.

The dark head turned. “I thought as much. I could feel your presence; you bring a chill with you. Our patient mends quickly. He will be able to rejoin his own before the month is gone.” Victoria's smile belied the sadness in her eyes.

"Who is she? Give me my knife ... only bad happens when she is near."

"Andrew, be quiet. They will hear you in the pub. This is my friend, and yours. She saved your sorry life. I have talked to her many times. I write to her in my journal.” Victoria left the chair next to the low bed and walked to the shadows where Connie waited.

"I have need to talk to you, my sister,” she whispered as she drew near. “Let us go into the hall.” Turning to the anxious soldier, Victoria continued, “I must talk to my friend. Try to drink some of the tea while I am gone."

The soldier glared after them.

As they stepped out of the small room, Victoria voiced her concerns. “I fear he is right about his arm. I know nothing of how the eyes and ears function, but I fear they too are damaged beyond repair. He is strong and young. He is destined to take over his father's farm and produce store near Philadelphia. I feel he will succeed."

Victoria's small hands flew to cover her face. Connie waited for the hidden sobs to cease. Pulling a linen handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress, Victoria wiped the tears and blew her nose.

"If you aren't worried about Andrew, what is the matter?” Connie wanted to hold the younger woman, to help her through her anguish.

"I am evil, no better than the women of the night who give wanton pleasure to any man who asks and has the coins necessary to buy her company."

Fascinated, Connie watched as her friend struggled with her morals. She knew what had happened. She asked softly, “You've fallen for Andrew, haven't you?"

Puzzled Victoria asked, “Fallen? I don't understand...” As the meaning of the strange term became known, the young woman's face brightened, than saddened as she admitted her indiscretion. “Yes, as you say, I have ‘fallen’ for Andrew. Kone, I do not have that right. I am a married woman. I have a position in society as the Colonel's wife and the daughter of a surgeon. It would be unthinkable to soil their names with the scandal it would bring if it is found out that I love another, and that the other man is a Corporal in the Federal army. Evan would have every right to take a stick to me."

"NO!” Connie reached for the slim arm, wishing she could shake some sense into the dark head. “No one has a right to raise a hand or rod to another. No man to his wife and no wife to her husband."

"But, I am no better than a harlot."

"You are a young woman who married to protect her family's name from scandal and fulfill a commitment. You have done that, now it is time for you to find some happiness. If you have found love with Andrew, than so be it. You will find a way to be together.” As the words spilled from her head to her lips, Connie tried to stop herself, but found she couldn't. If she was to change the course of history, then the damage was done. Stepping back she put her hands to her mouth, remembering the flood of information she had gleaned from the tombstones at the Mercy Chapel and the articles at the Historical Center. It was all coming together. Victoria had to leave.

So Victoria didn't die in the war. She and Andrew went to a small town in Pennsylvania and live on a farm.

"What is it, Kone? There is something you are not telling me.” The long thin fingers reached for Connie.

"Victoria, there are a lot of things I am not able to tell you and there are a lot of things that I don't know. Someone gave me some good advice recently. They said I should follow my heart. The message is a good one.” Connie thought of Brian, worrying and waiting for her somewhere in time. “I plan on listening to her and I think you should, too, go for the gold ring, get the prize, live for yourself."

Victoria leaned back looking up at Connie's radiant face and smiled. “I do not know what you are saying. A gold ring and prizes make no sense, but I do understand true love, and living for one's self. I will talk to Andrew of this. He may find me ugly and unpleasant to be with because I am not to be trusted. If this is so, I will be...” Tears welled up in the dark blue eyes.

"He loves you as much as you love him. Wait for him to get back on his feet, so he won't think you pity him. Be patient, he will come to you.” Connie stepped back as she felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her. “I have to go back to my own time. Be careful, Victoria, don't get caught."

Taking her own advice, Connie quickly turned and followed the hall to the steps. I have to go through the curtains before I get back. They're just ahead, a few more steps.

The haze grew darker, swirling. That's what was making her dizzy, Connie moved in what she thought was the right direction. No longer able to make out her surroundings she hoped no one was throwing darts if she was on the bar side of the wall.

The mist thinned and light broke it up even more. Connie reached for stability as the motion around her slowed and stopped.

"I will not fall,” she said softly.

"Good, I don't want to carry you to the table.” Brian's arm around her felt natural.

Did I just meet this man this week? With the way I've been zipping around in time, maybe I knew him in some other time frame.

"Are we being watched?” Connie tried to glance around the room discreetly. Everything seemed normal.

"No, I went to the bar for refills, I finished your drink too, when I saw you come through the wall. You didn't hit the door but you didn't seem to mind that there was only wall and a bar in front of you."

For the first time Connie noticed that they were indeed standing next to the wide wooden bar. “But I didn't come over with you."

"People will convince themselves that you did. They wouldn't be able to rationalize it any other way. If they noticed at all.” Brian handed her one of the steins and guided her back to their table.

"I ordered for us, but asked Mary to wait until you got back from the Ladies.” Brian reseated Connie, and waved to the waitress, who nodded that she understood.

"Mary? I'd forgotten her name. It fits her. I wonder if it's her real name,” Connie said, referring the Revolution period dress the waitress wore. Brian's hand covered hers. She looked into the dark depths of his eyes.

"Andrew and Victoria are in love. I think they'll run away together.” Wiping at the wet ring made by the stein in front of her, Connie felt a twinge of guilt. “I may have gone too far. I told Victoria to follow her heart no matter where it led."

"What's wrong with that? It sounds like good advice to me,” Brian said.

"She's married. The man she loves is an enemy of her country. She could be in real danger. I could have put her in that danger."

"Connie, she would never be happy staying with Evan. Not now that she knows what she could have. Her life would end up as miserable as her mother's.” Brian held her hand on the table. “Don't second guess yourself. There's no way you will ever know, unless of course you go on another trip."

"That would be the only reason I would want to go back again. I don't think it will happen though. Things are getting back to normal. Okay so not quite yet.” She relented, when Brian looked at her with raised eyebrows.

Over earthenware bowls of vegetable soup and sandwiches, Connie told Brian about her meeting with Victoria and the dreams she had been having of Victoria aging from a teenager to an old woman. She confessed that it was Victoria's own advice she gave, to follow her heart.

"This little old lady, was she dressed in a high necked dirty brown or gray dress with a white apron? Her hair is a dark gray with streaks of white and it's pulled back in a bun. She sometimes wears a floppy rimmed hat that has seen better days and smokes a cigar?"

Connie stopped, the sandwich half way to her mouth, and she stared at Brian. “You've seen her. Why didn't you tell me? What did she say to you?"

Brian finished swallowing the bite he was chewing before answering. “I didn't know who she was. I had dreams too but I had forgotten them until you mentioned yours. She ... well, she warns me to watch out for you, and...” He hesitated.

"What else, Brian?” Connie waited.

"She told me to protect you and not to let you get away. I think she gives good advice.” Brian dipped his spoon into the hot soup trying to watch Connie at the same time.

A warm glow filled Connie. It was a familiar feeling, but this time she knew she could trust the man across from her. Smiling, she was pleased to see Brian relax. “I think so too. She's been telling me pretty much the same thing.” With a sigh, Connie made the plunge, “What she said was ‘don't let true love escape'."

His voice soft, Brian smiled. “I love you, too.” They leaned across the table, their lips met, sealing their commitment.

For the first time since arriving in Fredericksburg, Connie felt her life was hers. The couple spent the next hour comparing childhoods and telling each other about their families.

Connie stopped in the middle of telling Brian a story about her mother's two AM cleaning habits. “She's back."

Connie watched as Victoria came through the covered opening, but instead of turning to leave the bar, she scanning the room.

Blindly putting her hand in Brian's, Connie told him what was happening. “I'm going to trip. I'll stay close.” It took very little effort to transcend the distance in time. Was that because both Victoria and Connie wanted the meeting?

Connie stood and waited for Victoria to make her way through the thong of soldiers and their officers. A few offers of drinks were shunned by the thin soldier as she neared the massive open hearth. Standing to face the fire's warmth, Victoria waited for Connie to join her. Zack brought a tankard of hot tea.

"Kone, I must return to Evan.” She shook her head to stave off Connie's objection. “I am a child of the South. I don't know if I could survive in the North. There is so much hate for us there.” She turned to leave.

"Victoria,” Connie stepped in front of the other woman. “Don't make a decision now. Wait until Andrew is stronger. Evan is a strong man; he will learn to live without you. But you will never be happy if you don't go to Andrew."

Victoria looked up at Connie. “How can you say this? My mother will return home this week. And we have word that Maxi has been wounded, he will be coming home as soon as he has the strength to make the trip."

"Everything will be all right. Your mother and father will live long lives and they will enjoy many grandchildren. Max will prosper, and Evan ... he will find happiness. You have to trust me Victoria, your family will be a sad spot in your future, but Andrew will be your new family, he will be your life.” The words spilled out as quickly as Connie could say them afraid that Victoria would leave and she would never have the chance to change her mind. Why did she feel she had to convince Victoria to leave her husband? Was Victoria right? Did she have another destiny?

"Maybe ... maybe not.” Victoria turned and walked with her head down, her face hidden by the butternut kepi, to the red door. Before going out into the heavy rain, she turned and raised her hand to Connie.

Closing her eyes, Connie felt herself drift. She became aware of Brian's touch, and the warm room around her.

Saturday

She didn't need an alarm clock this morning. Connie woke to the sound of the shower running and Brian's deep bass voice coming from the small room. Such a pleasant feeling having him so close.

I wonder what it would be like to ... Commotion in the hall distracted her thoughts.

"Be careful, don't bump the wall,” Tracey's warning was followed by a thud. “Joe!"

The rest of her complaint was too soft and far away for Connie to hear. Sliding out of the high bed, and putting on her duster, she went to the bathroom door.

The shower had stopped, Brian hummed softly. Connie tapped on the closed door. “Are you all right in there? It sounds like something's dying."

The door swung open, revealing a damp Brian wearing a light cotton bath robe. “Hey, hey, hey, you better get used to this, cause I think I'm going to be doing a lot of it from now on."

"What? Bathing? Shaving? I hope so.” Connie let him kiss her, inheriting a portion of the mint scented shaving cream.

"No, silly, singing.” Throwing his head back, Brian sang the title line from, ‘I've got to be me.'

"We'll talk about that later. Joe and Tracey are getting ready to leave and I want to say good-bye.” She stepped back into her room. “Let me know when you're done, Frank, so I can shower. They won't be leaving until ten or so. Joe said they would be taking another look around first. We've got some of time, that is, if you don't try to sing all of Sinatra greatest hits."

"Well, I'm not using the shower now..."

"No way, finish shaving and give me a yell.” The warmth she felt wasn't just from the morning sun.

"Why the serious face? Is something bothering you?” Brian looked down at Connie as they strolled along the brick sidewalks of the historical city. Hordes of tourists would be filling the streets soon. The shop clerks were opening their doors and putting out signs and displays. They walked slowly toward the river.

"I was thinking about Victoria. Will I ever find out who she is and why I feel so close to her and Andrew?” Tightening her hold on his hand, she felt the small ring press into her finger. I may have to move it to my other hand if I get a wedding band. “I've been thinking about tripping to see her this evening. It will be my last chance. I think I have to try.” She waited for his comment.

"I'll be there if that's what you want. Just save some time for me, too.” The bargain was closed with a light kiss.

"Are you sure about driving me home tomorrow?” They had gone to the bus station after breakfast with the Handleys to cash in Connie's return bus ticket.

"Positive, I want to be alone with you, without Joe, Tracey, or Victoria around.” Brian tightened his hold on her hand.

They came to the dock where Connie and Victoria had first talked. Sitting on a bench in the sun.

"I'm happy with my career but I want to take it further. I have a Masters in American History. I'm entered in the doctorate program at Penn State next year. I hope to teach at a University instead of a prep-school. And I would like to have more time for photography.” Connie's hand was warm in his. “What about you?"

Connie took a deep breath before answering. “I want to write the great American novel, of course. I have the subject. Do you want to hear?"

"Why not? Unless it's really boring.” Ducking the smack Connie leveled at him, Brian laughed. “No, I really would like to hear your idea."

"If you go to sleep, I'll never speak to you again."

"Promise, I won't."

"I want to tell the story of my great, great, great grandparents. The trouble is that I don't have a whole lot to go on.” Raising their held hands, Connie lifted her pinky finger. “This was Mandi's wedding ring. It was passed down from mother to daughter through five generations. My mother left it to me in her will. If she had lived to see me marry, she would have given it to me then."

"I know Drew fought for the Union in a division from Pennsylvania. In eighteen sixty-four, he returned home after recuperating from debilitation injuries at a hospital in Washington. He brought his nurse home as his bride.

"I have Drew's lineage as far back as seventeen sixty-four, but Mandi's a mystery. No one in the family remembered having heard anything about her past. Few pictures remained. Most were of later vintage, taken in the late twenties. One is a picture of a wrinkled old man in pants that were a size too big for him, held up by suspenders, standing in front of a small general store. He held a straw broom as he stared at the camera with his good eye, the left one was covered by a patch. In the window was a sign “Kosgrove's General Store and Post Office, Cherry Grove, Pennsylvania". Grandma Mary said that the man in the picture is Drew. Another of him was taken at a picnic, or large gathering in the summer. Drew is sitting on a wooden chair under a tree, smoking a pipe as he watched children and young adults playing baseball in an open field. A woman is standing behind his chair, her head turned from the camera, her white dress bright in the sun. Her face is shaded by a large hat."

As she talked something from the past tugged at her to be remembered, just as she thought she had it in her grasp, it would drift away.

"Were there any pictures of Mandi?” Brian was watching her with deep interest.

"A few, but she was camera shy. There was one ... we know for sure. Taken in the late thirties, thirty-six or thirty-eight. The date is written on the picture, but it's faded. She's sitting in a rocker on the porch of her daughter's house in town. Her face is in the shade, but you can see that she is smoking a cigar. Mandi was ninety-seven when she died in nineteen forty; she had been living with her granddaughter for six years, after Drew died. All the other pictures were taken at a distance. It's impossible to say for sure who the people in them are. My grandmother told me the ‘woman behind the chair with the hat was Mandi."

Looking at the ring on her little finger Connie continued, “I've always felt close to her. We share a birthday, November fifth, and a name. My middle name is Amanda."

"And that was her ring?” Brian indicated the heirloom.

"Yes. All the other women in the family have worn it on their wedding day as a wedding ring but I'm afraid my hands are too large to wear it on my ring finger. But I love the ring, it means a lot to me, so I wear it as a pinky ring."

"You mean a lot to me.” Brian held her close. He worried aloud, “I don't want anything to happen to you. Promise you won't take this trip without me."

"I wouldn't think of it.” Connie assured him, and they sealed the pact with another kiss.

The morning quickly melted into afternoon and the afternoon was fading away. Brian wanted to show Connie the historical city the way normal people saw it, on vacation. For a matter of hours, he forgot everything but Connie.

The setting sun dropped slowly behind the hills to the west, coloring the sky with streaks of purple and orange as they approached the bed and breakfast.

"Great back drop,” Brian exclaimed, as he watched the colors fade. They were all but lost by the time they reached the door.

"I'm a little afraid,” Connie said quietly, stopping on the sidewalk.

"You don't have to do this.” Brian turned to look down at her, tightening his arm around her waist. “We can go to a motel, or even leave for home.” He tried to hide his own fears of the past and the relief an early departure would give him.

Connie glanced up, her hand on the doorknob. “Oh, you think ... No, I'm not talking about tripping. I mean us. Things are going too good. I'm afraid something will happen and ... I'm afraid."

Turning her to face him, Brian looked into her eyes. “You don't have to be afraid. I'll be here until you choose to kick me out. But that will be the only way you'll get rid of me. Now stop worrying.” Pulling her near, he held her tight.

Someone must have pulled a number on her. Brian wished he had the rat here. He'd have a few choice things to say. Brian knew he would have to show Connie that she could trust him.

Voices and laughter came from the dining room. Looking at each other with a smile, the couple ascended the steps as quietly as they could. They had no desire to include others in their private world.

"Bring your book over and let me see what you have so far,” Connie told Brian at the door to her room.

"There's not much to see. All it is right now is a planned layout, some ideas and notes on locations and buildings."

"It doesn't matter. Let me see it."

"Okay, but it's going to bore you to death.” Brian went into his room.

Connie watched the door close behind him and went into her own room. Kicking off her shoes, she put her purse on the chest next to the bed and turned on the radio. She hadn't any twentieth century news since she arrived in Fredericksburg.

Brian arrived with a pile of notebooks and packs of pictures. “Were do you want them?"

"Wow, that is a lot of stuff. Put it on the bed. That way you can spread it out."

Brian arranged the material and started to take Connie through his plans.

"I guess if I'm going to trip, I should do it.” Connie stood up and stretched.

They had put Brian's book away over an hour ago. Brian read Connie's article and they compared notes on their future plans. For some reason, Connie thought with a smile, they seemed to have a lot to say to each other.

"Just why was it you wanted to visit with Victoria?” Brian asked. His brow furrowed with concern. “Maybe you should leave well enough alone."

"Maybe, but ... I'm not so sure that it is ‘well enough'.” Connie smiled at Brian. “I don't like the way we left it. I think she should forget social morals and get the heck out of town. I don't even know if I'll be able to go back. The journal's done. I have to know what happened to her."

"Okay, we'll do it your way.” Brian stood beside her and held both of her hands. “I'm glad this tripping is almost over. I don't think I could ever get use to it."

"When I have the answers ... maybe then it will stop.” Connie forced herself to let go of Brian's hands. “What time is it? It must be getting late."

Brian glanced at his wristwatch. “Wow, it's almost eleven. Do you think it's too late to trip?"

"I don't know,” she said. “But I'll never know if I don't try."

"How are you going to do this? You've never tripped on demand before."

"I don't know that either. Maybe reading the journal will help.” Picking up the little book, Connie turned to the last entry. As she read the words, she wondered at Victoria's plight. What would her decision be? Would she stay with a man she didn't love because of convention? Or would she follow her heart, and run away with the man who had claimed her love? Was her decision at the Blackstone a final one?

Connie read aloud.

13 May 1863

What am I to do, Kone? I love Andrew with all my heart but Evan has been a true and good husband during these years of war. If I leave him, I can never return. Can I betray my family? My country? Myself? When I saw you today at the Pub you told me to be true to my heart. But can I?

"Oh, Victoria, what have you done?” She thought of the long dark hair falling down the young woman's back as she sat in this very spot, on a chair not unlike this one, writing in this tattered book when it was new.

Holding the journal tight to her chest, Connie closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing but her distant friend. Thoughts of her own future with Brian tried to intrude, but she put them aside with a smile of remembrance.

The mist tried to gather. A vision of an old Victoria filled Connie's thoughts. “Don't give up, child. We're waiting for you. We need you.” Connie felt the swirling fog as the vision led her through time.

She looks like Mom. Connie smiled. But then Mom had suffered for months while the cancer worked inside her. Of course she looked old and she had lost weight.

"Brian, I think its working. Can you tell?"

"It comes and goes, but yes I think its getting stronger."

Connie sat in silent concentration for a while more, finally, opening her eyes. She looked at Brian perched on a straight-backed chair next to her, his eyes glued to her face. Putting her hand on his, she let the book drop to her lap with a sigh. “It's no use. I can't initiate the trip. It was so close."

"I'm sorry. I know how worried you are, but it is the past. Whatever was to happen has. Don't you think you might have had some influence on her?"

"I know. I'm being selfish. I just...” A tear of frustration rolled down her cheek. Quickly, she brushed it aside and took a deep breath. “Maybe I should just butt out. It is her life."

"I think you need something to eat. We missed supper, you know.” Brian stood up. “I'll go raid the kitchen. Betty won't mind as long as I don't make a mess. You wait here,” he said. “One person rummaging down there, may not be heard, but two ... well you never know what trouble we'd get into, and we don't want to be the subject of a scandal. After all, we might want to come back here some day."

After he left the room, Connie stood. She felt the cold wood floor under her bare feet as she moved toward the wardrobe to put the journal away.

Her steps halted, a light flicked behind her. Slowly Connie turned.

Victoria didn't see her. She was angrily packing and unpacking a large carpetbag that sat on the bed. Dresses and undergarments cluttered the quilted cover. Frustrated she threw a petticoat down on the pile and reached into the bag. Tears streaked her face, as she captured sobs in the small linen handkerchief she carried in one hand. “What am I going to do?"

Connie stood across from her. “Wear as much as you can. Put on some extra petticoats and under-drawers, wear two corsets. Put another skirt over that one, maybe two and put the bodices in the bag. Pack some things that you can't bear to leave behind, but be ready to part with others.” Her smiling advice had a calming effect on Victoria.

Connie watched as Victoria started to follow her advice. Minutes later, she stood back and asked, “Can you tell?"

Shaking her head, Connie assured her. “Anyone who knows you will think you've put on weight, but they won't be able to tell that you are wearing a week's worth of clothes. Now finish packing the bag. I take it you're going to meet Andrew."

"Yes, I am to meet the wagon at the river.” Victoria whispered her plans to her friend as she selected clothing to be packed. With care she added small ambrotypes of her mother and father. “I don't have a picture of Maxi; I will have to carry him in my heart.” Another sob escaped. “I will miss them so much. Kone, am I truly doing the right thing?"

Connie whispered, “Can you live without Andrew?” She waited for the responding shake of the dark head. “You can't very well go to Evan and tell him that you've taken up with a Yankee, and that you want Evan to move out so Andrew can move in, now can you?"

"No.” The word was almost a wail. “He would have me shot as a spy."

"I don't think he would go that far, but he could have Andrew arrested and make your life miserable,” Connie agreed. “When must you leave?” As if to answer her question the mantle clock in the parlor chimed the hour, the muffled tones interrupted by men's voices.

Victoria went to the door and opened it a crack, listening. Connie could see the light from below in the stairwell. “He wasn't to arrive until tomorrow.” As if to answer some unasked question from Connie, she turned and explained. “An agent from the North. Evan expected him to arrive tomorrow night. Evan was to be gone all night at the House. Carpy went to be with Annabelle. With them in the house, I won't be able to get away.” The tears flowed in earnest.

"No,” Victoria's sudden resolve startled Connie. “No,” she repeated quietly. “I will not lose Andrew.” Looking at Connie through red rimmed and swollen eyes she asked, “Will you help me?"

"Of course.” Connie saw the toughness of the nurse who had seen the grim horrors that war can inflect on men, and the young wife who would fight for her right to help make those horrors bearable. She saw the stricken thirteen-year-old who had buried her dead sister, knowing in her heart that she hadn't been stillborn, but was murdered. As she pulled herself up and dried her eyes, Connie saw the woman who worked in a field hospital along side her friends and father, who had hidden and cared for an enemy soldier. And falling in love with him, she wouldn't sacrifice herself on the altar of family honor. Connie was proud to call this woman her friend.

Watching as Victoria read the neat script on a piece of stiff paper, Connie knew it was a farewell message to Evan and her family. Victoria folded it in half and using the pen and inkwell at hand, she wrote one word, ‘Evan'. Placing the note on her nightstand, Victoria pulled the wedding band off of her finger and placed it on top of the note. One last tear slid to her chin. Wiping it away with her hand, she turned to the ghost from the future.

"The words of a preacher will never bind us in marriage, but our hearts will never be separated. Andrew and I will live as man and wife and I will wear his ring.” She reached into the reticule hanging at her wrist. After a short search she pulled out a small bundle. The corners of the handkerchief where knotted to make a pouch for the small treasure. Undoing the knot with trembling fingers, Victoria took the band of intertwined metal from its place of keeping.

Connie's hand flew to her mouth as she gasped when she saw the familiar ring.

Victoria hadn't noticed her reaction, instead holding the band between her fingers, she started to read, “M, Your..."

"...love holds my heart. D.” Connie spoke the words without looking at the ring.

"We decided it would be better if I changed my name.” Her voice trailed off as she looked at Connie's expression of amazement. “You're not looking at the ring. How did you know what it says?"

Holding up her hand, Connie let Victoria absorb the implications.

"Your ring is just like mine.” Victoria's look of surprise, changed to one of puzzlement. “You have my ring?” Victoria sat on the bed, waiting for some insight.

Connie explained, “My ring belonged to my great, great, great grandmother Mandi Kosgrove. She was married to Drew Kosgrove and they lived a long and happy life in Cherry Grove, Pennsylvania. They had many children, one of which was to be the father of my great grandmother. The ring has been handed down and used as a wedding ring for each of its owners. They have all had happy and long marriages. They say it's good luck."

"I am Mandi Kosgrove ... I am ... we are ... Drew and I are...” Bewilderment was replaced by a broad smile. “We are kin."

Connie sighed, then smiled. At last the connection was made. “So it would seem.” Without saying so, she knew why the dreams were so persistent. The white dress in the photo, the woman with the big hat, it was the dress Victoria was preparing for her wedding to Evan. “Did you pack the white dress?” she asked.

"I did, why do you ask?"

"Never mind. You have to leave. What can I do to help?” Connie asked.

"You can go to the steps and see if it is safe. I must hurry. We have spent so much time talking; I hope Evan is entertaining in his office.” Victoria turned to Connie. “I will miss you, daughter. I fear this will be the last time we will see each other."

As they stood together at the door, Connie said her farewells. “I will see you, in pictures and in the face of my mother. She looks like you. When you wear the white dress, think of me."

"I will never forget you. I will think of you as often as I look at my ring.” With a start, Victoria's eyes widened. “The journals! I have given the first one to mother with a note. She will receive them when she arrives from Richmond tomorrow. I haven't written in the second one for some time. It is in its hiding place so that you will find it in ... what year is it in your world?"

"It's two thousand and six.” Connie watched the small woman shake her head.

"I wish we had more time. There is so much we need to say to each other."

Connie nodded. “I know, but it isn't to be, not if you are to make a safe exit. You can write to me, maybe another journal."

Victoria looked up into the sad face. “I will do that; it will be given to you on your wedding day.” She reached for the doorknob and took a deep breath. “I must go."

Brian closed the door. The smile on his face melted when he found the room empty. No, not empty, the mist hovered next to the canopy bed. Connie was on a trip. “Damn, she couldn't wait for me to get back.” He knew he wasn't being fair. Setting the plate of sandwiches on the dresser, he stood near the bed to watch and wait.

From the things he heard, Brian was able to piece together some of what was happening. Connie and Victoria were talking. What would she decide? Being a romantic, Brian hoped Victoria would follow her Yankee lover.

When Connie's enshrouding cloud, went through the door, Brian followed.

After a walk back the hallway, she went to the bottom of the steps, hovering. Was she waiting for someone, Victoria maybe, to come down?

So the escape was under way, and Connie was the lookout.

As they approached the library/office door, Connie stopped. He could hear her cry out, the sound hollow and far away. Whatever was happening wasn't good for Victoria and maybe a threat for Connie, too.

Leading the way down the hall, Connie approached the door to Evan's office, as she reached it the voices inside grew louder.

She cried out as the door swung open and a man stepped into the hall, with Evan close behind. For what seemed minutes, but in reality was only seconds the two men stood looking at Victoria standing in the hall, a carpet bag in her hand.

"Ah, I see you're ready to go, my dear. Why don't you wait in my office while I see my guest out?” The words were civil enough, but Connie could see the fire of rage in his eyes and the set of his jaw. He closed the door firmly behind Victoria and leaning close to it, put a key in the lock and turned it, before following the agent. Evan guided him to the back door, so he could leave in the dark of the side street, as Victoria had planned on doing. Evan had a few parting words for the man before shaking his hand.

Connie slipped into the room as Evan unlocked the door. Victoria was waiting for him.

Connie was proud of her ancestor. She stood with her head high and her trembling hands hidden in the fur muff.

"What do you mean by locking the door, sir? I will not be held captive in my own house.” Her lips were white with rage or fear, either way it should have worked in her favor, but Evan wasn't to be put off.

"You will explain yourself, madam, and you will do it now. Where is Corporal Carpstairs? Has he gone to get your carriage, to whisk you away into the night? Were you going to leave without so much as an explanation?” Evan was in control of his emotions, but for how long? He had to be near the edge.

Connie could almost see the smoke coming from the man's nostrils, but Victoria held her ground, not backing as he neared her.

"Carpy doesn't know what I am doing. I gave him leave to pay call on a lady.” Her voice was one of reason.

"You have deceived him as you have deceived me. Is that what you are doing?” He almost spit the words, the vein in his neck palpated with the beat of his heart. “I will deal with the Corporal later."

"He has done nothing wrong..."

"You will tell me how to handle my men? I don't think I need your permission to discipline one of MY men.” Raising his clenched fists, Evan released his fingers, as he seemed to try to regain control.

Connie knew Victoria was in real danger. “Be careful, Victoria, don't push him too hard. He's on the edge.” Connie stood where Victoria could see her while she talked to her husband.

"Can we sit and talk, Evan? I know I have a lot to explain.” Victoria reached out with her right hand. “Give me just a few minutes of your time. We haven't as much as sat down to eat together in over a fortnight. Do me this favor."

Without accepting the outstretched hand, Evan turned his back and went to sit on the edge of his desk. Victoria sat on a straight-backed chair posed for the verbal fight of her life.

Connie could see a trickle of sweat trace down the side of her face. She must be hot in all those clothes and that heavy cape, not to mention the fear she has to be feeling. But Connie knew that the young woman was sweating out the time as well. Would Andrew wait?

"Of course, you are right. I am leaving you.” Putting her hand up to stop his objections, Victoria continued, “But I am leaving my parents and brother as well. I am leaving my home, my state and my country. You have done nothing to offend me. Evan, you have been a gracious and understanding husband, but I ... This has nothing to do with you, it is me."

"Nothing to do with me? You are leaving, but it has nothing to do with me, your husband.” Standing, Evan paced the small room. “Just who does it have to do with? Do you love another?"

Victoria's pale face grew pink with shame. “I didn't mean for it to happen, it just did."

"Who is this scoundrel?” The pacing had stopped with the sound of her voice. Evan glared hard at her tear-streaked face.

"Evan, I love him. If you must punish someone for this crime, then you must punish me. Not Carpy, not my love, and not yourself.” Victoria tried to stop the tears as she kept glancing at the door.

Connie held up her hand and pointed at the small ring on her finger, and to herself, than to the door. Victoria signaled her understanding with a slight nod.

Going out into the hall, Connie headed for the back door. “BRIAN, ARE YOU WITH ME?” she shouted. “I HAVE TO FIND ANDREW"

Rain pelted the streets and formed puddles in the gutters. Void of stars or moon, the darkness was almost total outside the ring of light from the gas street lamps. “He's here.” Connie saw a wagon waiting as the dark horses impatient to be moving, snorted their disapproval of the weather. “He's come for Victoria.” Feeling relief at the young soldier's appearance at the house, Connie turned to go back inside and let Victoria know of Andrew's arrival.

"Yank, nobody's here. I'm getting’ gone. Ya hear? It ain't safe. I must've been crazy to agree to this.” The drover lifted the reins.

"No, you can't do that.” Connie spoke the words as an echo to Andrew's. The canvas moved to reveal a man under its cover.

"She must have been delayed. You will wait. Kone, what has happened?” Drew pushed the canvas back.

"I don't have to do anything I don't want to, and I don't want to be waiting in these streets with a Yankee in my wagon. I'm only doin’ this as a favor for my friend ... now you got this Kone person involved too."

"Sure, and this friend is not paying you anything, right. You don't get anything out of this."

Connie went to the wagon. The horse stomped the packed dirt road as she approached.

"Andrew, Victo ... Mandi sent me. She was seen leaving the house. Her husband won't let her go. You have to wait for her.” The black patch looked darker than the light-less sky.

"Perhaps you are not the spirit of death. You would bring me my life. I will not leave without Mandi, and this wretched excuse of a driver will not stop me."

"You talkin’ to me? Ya can just stop frettin', cause we're gettin’ out of here right now.” With a slap of the reins, the horses lunged against the weight of the wagon.

Connie didn't notice the smooth movement as Andrew pulled out a pistol. “Hold them steady, and I won't shoot you, but if you so much as move this wagon a yard, I will put a ball in your sorry head.” His words were quiet and menacing. The wagon came to a halt.

"I must go to Mandi's aid and you will wait for us to return."

"And just how do you think you can make me do that?” The drover was waiting for his opening to take off without his passengers.

"I don't want to do this, but you give me no choice.” The heavy pistol came down, grazing the drover's head behind his right ear. As he slumped on the spring seat, Andrew swung himself over the side of the wagon, his left arm dangling useless at his side.

Connie followed as he went to the locked back door. Andrew threw himself at the door several times before hearing the satisfying crack of wood as the frame gave. One last body slam and he was standing in the meagerly stocked pantry.

Connie led him to the office. Offering a smile of encouragement, she entered the room and waited, her thoughts troubled by what could follow.

Victoria noted her return with a start. Evan turned and looked in the direction of her stare. Seeing nothing, he returned his attention to his wife. “I will not permit you to leave. You will take your bag back to your room and unpack immediately.” Thinking that he had scored the decisive blow, Evan started to turn his back, but stopping, he faced Victoria again. “I don't understand. I have shown you love and respect. Have I not? I have never raised a hand in anger. What have I done to make you hate me?” His voice was that of a man trying to find answers.

"My love, are you in there? I've come for you.” Andrew's shout as he knocked at the office door, caught both of the occupant's attention. Victoria smiled in anticipation, standing to meet her lover. Evan's back stiffened and his brow furrowed as he saw his wife's reaction.

Taking a musket from its place on the mantle, he stepped to the closed door. Victoria's eyes grew wide with fear she started to cry out a warning.

"I will surely kill the scoundrel if he is warned; otherwise, perhaps I will allow him the honor of the dueling field.” His eyes were hard, and as cold as ice, his words, though quiet, were edged with steel.

Victoria had seen him deal with those who came to pass information to the Confederate Government. She knew he was a force not to be taken lightly. She closed her mouth and nodded agreement.

But Evan had no hold on Connie. “Andrew, he has a gun, use care."

The door opened slowly. Evan kept it between himself and the intruder. Seeing that the hall was empty, he turned to his wife. “So, I am not to hurt your lover, but he can wait in ambush for me. How have I wronged you, child?” Not waiting for an answer, he stepped into the hall's waiting threat.

Andrew was shorter and thinner than Evan, but he was able to put enough force in a blow across the larger man's shoulders to knock him to his knees. As he fell the cocked musket hit the floor and slid out of reach, discharging the musket ball harmlessly into the wall.

Without looking at his attacker, Evan surrendered. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. Do what you will to me."

"I have no wish to harm you. Give me the key to that room.” Andrew didn't take his eyes off of the fallen man as he accepted the brass key.

"Go into the room, sir.” Not allowing himself to be distracted by the woman he loved Andrew followed his prisoner and directed him to the straight-backed chair recently vacated by Victoria. “Sit down,” he ordered. Glancing around the small room, he couldn't find what he needed.

Never losing sight of his captive, the Corporal turned his body toward the door where Victoria waited. “I need something to tie him up with and quickly. Someone is sure to investigate the gunfire. Maybe in the pantry. Hurry.” His instructions were obeyed without hesitation as Victoria went out the door.

"...hope to provide for her happiness. I can give her everything she could ever want or need. You ... what do you do for a living, away from this damned war? Farm? Clerk? What? What kind of life is that for a Lady of the South? She will be hated in the North.” Seeing he was not in danger of losing his life, Evan strove to keep his wife, or was he stalling.

"I will not argue, I love her and she loves me. We will deal with the rest as it comes. If you are concerned with your own position—"

Evan stood so suddenly the chair he had been sitting on toppled over backwards. “My concerns are not for myself, and my position, as you infer. My concerns are for my wife. She is too young to know her own mind. She has been fooled into trusting a damn Yankee. I do not want to see her spend the rest of her life regretting this foolishness."

"I love him.” Both men watched as Victoria entered the room. “And as he has told you, he loves me. If you are worried about my happiness, Evan, don't be. I will be happy.” She smiled at Connie.

Righting the chair, Victoria waited for Evan to sit himself, and offer his hands to be bound behind him. Victoria tied the ropes to be easily loosened.

Handing the brass key to Victoria, Andrew lifted the carpetbag and went to the door. “I will check on the driver and wagon. Come quickly, it is growing lighter with every minute and I can hear shouts in the street.” He tenderly kissed his bride on the forehead, nodded to Connie, and with a last glance at the beaten man they were leaving behind to answer questions, he slid into the dark hallway.

Victoria knelt in front of the man she had married. He would not meet her eyes, his own glued to the wall behind her. “I will never forget you, Evan. You have been everything a woman could want in a husband."

With an angry jerk of his head, he looked down at her. “Such pretty stories you tell. Don't try to make me think you have any feeling for me. Not now! You are running away from me."

"I wish it could be different, but I...” Tears rolled unchecked from her already swollen eyes.

"GO! Just go!” Turning his eyes back to the blank wall, Evan didn't turn even when the door closed behind her. Connie watched as the dignified officer turned into a shrunken mass of rejected manhood. The brass key turning in the lock was not unlike the sound you imagine as the steel cage of a jail is locked behind the convicted prisoner.

As she heard the wagon pull away into the early morning, Connie sank to her knees, waiting for the trip back in time.

Opening her eyes, Connie looked around the cluttered office.

Brian knelt on the floor beside her. “You're back, is it for good this time?” Getting a smile and a tired nod in response, he put his hand under her elbow and helped her to her feet before wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight. “That must have been some ride you were on,” he whispered into her hair.

"It was,” Connie said pulling back to look into his smoky hazel eyes. “But I'm betting there's an exciting future out there, too.” She would deal with the fleeting memory of a scarred box, and the brass key that would open it later.

"Hmm, do I fit in that future somewhere?” Brian gently pushed a blonde curl off her sweaty forehead.

"I wouldn't have it any other way. From now on, you are the excitement in my life.” Connie put her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his.

Wanda C. Keesey lives with her husband and herd of cats in a small bedroom community in south-central Pennsylvania. She is a student of the Civil War era, and the people who lived in that time, and a staunch supporter and long time member of Pennwriters, Inc. Her short stories are published in several forums. Learn more about her and her work at her website: