The Lover's Eye, page 7
part #2 of Time Travel Series
“Well, Mary and I had nothing to do with that.”
“Guilty, madam, by association.” Matthew wags his finger. “Fortunate for us, Captain Tucker has since been strongly advised by his superiors to drop the matter. On the night of Madame Néve’s disappearance, we can only believe she met her demise trying to reach the shores of Cockspur Island and Union-held Fort Pulaski, where one such as she might seek refuge. And that, my dear Miss Peterson, is where the affair is most incontestably dropped.”
Matthew leaps over the large trunk of a fallen tree that blocks their path. When he turns to aid Miss Peterson, she has already stepped up, with ease.
Grinning playfully, his face speckled with sunlight as he looks up at her, “Oh how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, by that sweet ornament which truth doth give! So delicate in nature, yet dare I venture . . . so marvelously fit for a woman.” He laughs and waits for a predictable reaction to his discourse.
Matthew has learned-well Miss Peterson’s sensitivity to deductions she is anything but strong and self-sufficient. Why she would want to be thought of as such, he cannot imagine, and pursues the topic, “Am I to assume ladies of your day are exercised, Miss Peterson?”
Jane likes Matthew’s question, and adds, “My, what flowery talk. A bit of Shakespeare, I think . . . very flattering,” she chuckles, and clears her throat. “In the future, women enjoy a great deal of freedom. If we choose, we can run, jump, swim, row, ride, climb . . . you know, do just about anything a guy can do.” Throwing her arms out, Jane balances on the log and decides to walk from one end to the other, while she narrates. “We work out, lift weights, and have equipment that allows us to exercise inside at home or in a gym. We hike, camp, cycle, jog, and ski — although I’ve never done that before, gone skiing I mean. We take yoga and gymnastics classes, and compete in all kinds of sports. And that’s just brushing the surface.”
“I see,” Matthew says matter-of-factly, having no clever riposte to such a lively portrayal and impulsive exhibition.
“Of course, we will have to ditch the bulky garments to do all that stuff.” Jane grabs a handful of fabric from her dress to demonstrate. Then, she pointedly lifts her skirt, a bit too high for decency, and takes Matthew’s extended hand to jump down. A secret part of her enjoys the gentlemanly gesture and brief discomfort she causes at her improper conduct.
“My penny. It hasn’t turned up has it?” Absently, Jane lifts the small purse attached to her chatelaine, where she had carefully kept her coin from the future. The silver chatelaine purse was a gift from Anna and, more recently, Mary surprised her with an engraved thimble bucket that contained a brass thimble. Jane always wears her chatelaine, no matter where she goes. It is the only thing she has left that made the trip with her through time. It was a birthday gift from Sophie.
Matthew straightens the cuffs of his gray coat and takes up a more serious stance, “You understand, I would never inquire about such a thing. It can mean nothing but trouble for you, for all of us. As it stands, the small token with Lincoln’s likeness, your Lincoln penny, has never been mentioned. On the other hand, I have learned Madame Néve possessed a hefty amount of Union bills, which Captain Tucker turned over to authorities.” Matthew grabs a leaf off a bush, studies it a moment, then tears it in half, letting the pieces flutter to the ground. “I am afraid we must leave it at that.”
Jane frowns at remarks that render her powerless. How many times has she been forced to drop things this past year, or as Matthew so easily puts it, “leave it at that?” Wouldn’t she just love to investigate on her own? Unhappily, it is unthinkable. The days when she could hop into her Ford Fiesta and head out are long gone. She must defer to Matthew’s final judgment.
Discouraged, Jane pretends to watch a yellow butterfly that is sampling a patch of wildflowers that have rooted in a sunny spot. They are getting close to the creek. The rushing sound of water travels on a mild breeze that still has a touch of cool dryness to it. “Well, it may not have turned up, but it is still my guess Madame Néve stole it. There’s no other explanation. I know I had it up to that point. She must have hypnotized me, put me in a trance to get it, or I would have known or felt something.
“Just the thought of her searching me! And, even more bizarre, how would she know my penny was there in the first place? Mary insists our visit was not premeditated, totally innocent. No one knew about it.
“What, was someone spying on me? No, on second thought, I believe it’s much more sinister than that. It is something . . . unnatural.” Jane suppresses a cold chill. “Two people connected to me are dead . . . Angel and now Madame Néve. Hardly a coincidence.”
How about her jewelry box and ring? Jane’s mind revisits the day Mary took her to have her fortune told. “What purpose does it serve? Why me?” she crossly tugs the ribbon on her annoying bonnet and wishes she could yank it off. “This mess is totally ridiculous and driving me insane. This is not my place! This is not my life!”
Jane, who has worked so hard to keep her emotions tightly locked inside, abruptly snatches the confining ribbon, strips the handcrafted combination of straw, silk and lace from her head, and throws it impetuously to the ground in protest. She would stomp on it, if she could, but Celia is already retrieving the cumbersome thing.
“Please, my dear, such angst tears at my heart.” Matthew steps forward. In the face of being rebuffed, he runs his hand along the sleeve of Miss Peterson’s dress and gently captures her hand.
With great restraint he avoids the intense desire to draw her into his arms. Instead, Matthew tucks a wispy lock of her remarkable red hair behind one ear, so very cautious not to spoil the moment.
Touch is the only way he knows to offer her strength and show he cares. Matthew lifts Miss Peterson’s fingers to his mouth and lightly kisses the tops of her knuckles, “You alone and for so long have faced indescribable adversity that would have crushed many human beings to their soul. You have suffered cruel and incredible loss, yet you have endured unscathed. You are a survivor like none other. And, I say this most sincerely, you are my hero.”
Jane knows she should pull away, but she doesn’t. Matthew’s intimate gesture is comforting and makes her skin tingle. “I’ll be fine. Just as puzzled as ever,” she shrugs meekly, a little embarrassed by her brief tantrum.
“Wrapped in mystery . . . the story of my life these days, huh?” Jane bites her bottom lip. The old habit she is encouraged to break. Why does she want to cry all of a sudden? She has not cried in months, and certainly not where anyone could see.
Matthew smiles tenderly. He is overjoyed she has not withdrawn from him. Her hand feels warm and fits nicely within his. Seizing the moment, he reaches for her other hand and looks deep into eyes the color of Spanish moss after a rain and framed with black lashes that are moist along the tips. “You are to be applauded for your bravado, but you must not persist with this public persona on my account. We will get through this somehow. I promise you, I will do everything within my power to find the answers you desire. In the meantime, I am yours. Whatever you need . . . just ask.”
He continues with fervor, “I must tell you, wholeheartedly, Miss Peterson, and please forgive my imperfect timing, but . . . I am enamored. I have been so from the beginning, the first time we met.”
Not getting the response he hoped for, Matthew stalls. Sensing hesitation, he gently releases his hold, and steps back stiffly, “I must apologize for my sudden indiscretion, if it has offended you in any way.”
Whoa, awkward, Jane is suddenly wobbly. It has been a long time since she has had this kind of attention. No, take that back, never attention in this manner.
“Please, I . . .” Jane catches a glimpse of Celia, who is gripping her bonnet in one hand and using a stick with the other to draw meaningless circles in the dirt. Her back is slightly turned, giving them privacy.
“I beg your pardon,” Matthew concludes nobly, and pursues a course to rectify his misstep. He would not, for anything in the world, want to cause Miss Peterson unnecessary distress.
Jane smiles, “No, really, it’s okay.” She steps closer and boldly recaptures Matthew’s hands. “It’s just . . . well, I don’t know how ready I am for any kind of relationship in this new life of mine. Not yet, anyway. Please understand. It was not too long ago that I was able to accept the fact I might be here for a while. And, I just can’t help but think, do you really want someone like me, seeing that I’m so . . . so unreliable? Sometimes, I feel I could just vanish on the spot,” she chuckles feebly and gets an idea.
“Here. I want you to wear this. For good luck and to keep you safe until you return.” Jane twists her Lover’s Eye ring, which has left an impression from constant wear, off her finger. The lover’s eye, she has adored since childhood and was given to her by her parents on her 16th birthday. The lover’s eye, she lost once and now gives willingly, if it will keep him from harm. Carefully, she slips it onto Matthew’s pinkie. It fits perfectly. Like it belongs there.
“Matthew?” Jane waits for Matthew to raise his solemn face to meet hers, “I need good friends in this time. And I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our friendship. Not for anything. I am totally grateful to you. I promise I’ll think about . . . us. But please, let’s give it a little more time. Okay?” Jane’s heart flutters uncomfortably.
“Why . . . but of course.” Exploring the delicate features of her ring with his fingertips, Matthew is deeply moved by such a sweet and gentle gesture. His warm brown eyes search Miss Peterson’s lovely face for a brief moment. Grateful for her benevolent nature, he sighs happily, “Thank you, Miss Peterson. I will wear it always.”
Matthew cannot deny the improbability of their match, nor the pretty blush that suddenly glows on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. His mother warned that his feelings for Miss Peterson are an infatuation, a passing fancy. He refuses to believe that. With a little patience, their friendship can grow into something much more and he is willing to wait as long as it takes. Matthew wants this jewel among women to be his. He is completely devoted. He loves Jane Peterson with all his heart.
“Well now.” With a quick turn and courteous sweep of his hand, Matthew motions for them to proceed on. “We are friends first and foremost, my dear. You must never forget that.”
“And, allies,” Jane adds brightly, glancing at Matthew from the corner of her eye. Is she flirting? Really?
Matthew remains content walking by Miss Peterson’s side until the intensity of their brief and personal encounter melts away. They had reached the creek and now follow its direction along the shore where the path has become slightly uneven. He offers his bent elbow and she easily slips her hand into the warm curve of his arm.
After strolling a while longer in mutual companionship, Matthew suggests, “I must be off before sunrise on the morrow and there is still much to cover. If you will pardon my persistence, you had given an account of Darien, Georgia . . . there will be a Union raid in June. Now that you have had some time, can you remember more details on how this came to be?”
Quickly rethinking his approach, “Perhaps it would be better if I told you a story of my own,” he grins, wanting to see her happy. “About Darien and our family friends, the McIntoshes. I believe there may be a connection to you. Your ancestors, I mean. Would that please you?”
“Oh my God, I forgot about the raid on Darien! But yes, I’d love to hear a story,” Jane recalls her brief warning about Darien to Matthew before being hustled off in Mary’s carriage to this remote place. Fleeing Savannah in the dark of night with what Mary described as “the hounds nipping at our heels.”
Jane naturally falls into step with Matthew, matching his pace.
“Well then, let me begin. The McIntoshes have been good friends of our family for many, many years. You mentioned the name McIntosh at Fort Pulaski and I thought perhaps you might be related in some way. But then, there are many facets of the McIntosh family, from one end of Georgia to the other, and I suppose the Petersons, as well.” Matthew cuts his eyes to Jane and pats her hand, which rests lightly in the crook of his arm, “Just something I recall overhearing as a boy, an Anice McIntosh who married a Finn Peterson. You wouldn’t happen to know of them?”
“No, afraid not.” Jane’s stomach flips at her deliberate fib. She is just not prepared to talk about her family connection yet. And in her defense, she doesn’t really know the Petersons of 1863. But Finn? Finn Peterson, Jane believes, is how she got her middle name, someone on her family tree from way back. Fiona is the girl’s version. Before Jane can think more about it, Matthew draws her back to his story.
“My great-grandfather and Captain McIntosh’s grandfather were both soldiers in the continental army during the American Revolution. When the Georgia colony was founded, General Oglethorpe in Savannah quickly realized there was a need for military outposts. He recruited a robust band of Highland Scots who establish a settlement that eventually became the town of Darien. I’ve heard many stories about John McIntosh Mòr. A highlander through and through, a warrior that was among some of the finest fighting soldiers around. He must have been an impressive sight in full regalia, with claymore, side arms and targes,” Matthew laughs.
With the familiar part of the creek finally in view, Jane slows her steps to hear the last of Matthew’s intriguing story and asks, “So the McIntoshes are there, even now, in Darien?”
“Yes, I roamed the rich cotton fields and forests, and fished the Altamaha River on our family visits. Captain McIntosh and my father took me hunting on many occasions. The McIntoshes to this day own the largest tract of land in Liberty County where they have built a fine estate, a rather large plantation with well over two hundred slaves. Of course with the war, that number has diminished, but many of the slaves have stayed on. The McIntoshes, much like my family, are devoted to their good care and see that they are treated well, as an extension of family. Mother’s servant James Isaac and his brother Jessup were originally owned by the McIntoshes and purchased by my father years ago.”
Squirming at any reference to slaves, Jane changes the subject, “Look there’s my berry bush! Come on, I’ll show you. Mary told me they are called huckleberries and make a great pie.”
Jane had found a man’s flat brimmed straw hat in a trunk that she wore on her walks. Much better than a bonnet and suited her man clothes. When she was last out, she filled the hat with a handful of berries to carry back with her.
“I braved Mary’s scolding for not having something on my head to get some of these home.” Jane giggles, “Mary frets over my freckles that always darken in the sun. It’s funny, when I got here in this time . . . last year, I had a really nice tan started for the summer. We sort of worship the sun where I come from.”
Jane points out the green waxy leaves with scalloped edges on a bush with abundant fruit still remaining. “Hopefully these will be ready before long. I picked them too soon. Mary said it has to get hotter out for them to ripen.”
Matthew is caught by her reference. “Tan?” he questions, with thoughts of making hide into leather. Of course, skin can turn with exposure to sun, but he has not heard the word tan used in that context. “Women of your day make a concerted effort to darken their skin?”
“Yes, women and men. I’m afraid getting a nice tan is a popular summer activity.” Jane reaches over to pull a huckleberry off the bush, “These can’t ripen fast enough. I have had blueberries many times, but I have never eaten a huckleberry pie before. Boss, Mattie and Mary all say it is yummy.”
Jane tosses the unripe berry out into the brush. “I hope I’m around long enough to pick them.” She smiles sheepishly, “I’m sorry. My mind is always in conflict, switching back and forth. One minute I’m practical Jane, accepting the fact this is real and for keeps. The next, a spark of hope gives me some chance of making it back to my time. Maybe it’s not the key that will take me back to the future. I keep thinking anything goes, so why not something more magical.
“Hey! Maybe I can wiggle my nose like this,” Jane remembers Bewitched reruns and the Sabrina, The Teenage Witch series she used to watch as a teenager.
“Or, I could bob my head like this,” Jane crosses her arms straight out front from her shoulders and with a quick nod and a blink does her best impression of Jeannie in I Dream of Jeannie. She laughs merrily, and even more at Matthew’s perplexed expression caused by her brief moment of silliness. “I’m sorry, I kind of got carried away. We watch shows on TV. Sitcoms, they call them.”
Matthew sighs and shakes his head, “I will not inquire further. Oh, but you are a mystifying woman, Miss Peterson. Truly mystifying.”
“Ah, so true! The Mystifying Ghost Lady.” Jane strikes a ta-da pose, but then drops her hands to her sides. Her eyes reflect the deep green of the forest, sincere and direct, “To you, when we are together, I am simply Jane. I insist. And I will call you Matt from now on. I think it suits you.”
“Well then! There you have it,” Matt says weakly, spellbound, hopelessly caught. He can do nothing more than fumble clumsily with his timepiece that is now dangling about his leg from its chain.
“It is getting late.” He searches for the sun, lower in the sky and behind them. “We really must get back . . . Jane.” The gold lid engraved with the monogram ‘MH’ makes an audible snap and Matt returns his watch to his vest pocket. “After you, my dear.”
CHAPTER 11: INTERROGATION
The man looks a little bit like a portrait he had seen of Shakespeare — intelligent eyes, a finely-coiffed beard, apparently educated, and well mannered. Definitely career military. Bryce warily studies the slender, immaculately dressed officer in his late twenties, who is seated behind the table in the dimly lit chamber outside his cell.
Two large windows and the muffled sound of a bugle he heard an hour ago tell him it is evening. Moths dance around the firelight in the room, making zigzag shadows on the walls and looking much larger than they really are — nocturnal monster moths. A mild movement of cool air causes Bryce to draw the freshness into his lungs. It reminds him of freedom and how much he wants to be out of this place.
