Time Passage: A Time Travel Novel, page 5
Nellie sighed. “You talk too much.”
As the train platform came into view, the conductor came through and we stepped aside as he slid open the heavy steel door. A burst of cold, night wind washed over my face.
The train squealed to a stop and Percy barked, “All right. Go. Get off the train!”
I inhaled a shaky breath, gathered up my skirts, not gracefully, and descended the two steel stairs down to the wooden platform.
Behind me, a wiry, thin-faced porter appeared, tugging the trunk to the door. As he grunted with effort, he half-carried, half-dragged the thing down the stairs.
On the platform, a stocky man appeared, pushing a high wheeled hand car. He touched the brim of his cap and loaded the trunk.
“Where would you like this, Miss?” he asked in a deep, scraping voice, his face aged and lined, reminding me of a high school boyfriend’s catcher’s mitt.
What was inside that trunk, I had no idea.
I glanced around to see other passengers leaving the train and strolling into the train terminal. I pointed to the door. “Inside the terminal.”
“Very good, Miss,” the porter said.
I walked across the broad wooden platform to the terminal, as another gust of frigid wind chilled me to the bone, and I tucked my chin, while the porter clamped a hand onto his hat to keep it from flying away. My hat was secured by three pins, so it stayed firmly on my head, a new sensation.
I didn’t look back at the train to see if Nellie and Percy were watching. I assumed they were hanging around, making sure I didn’t slip back onto the train through another door.
Was this my punishment? Was the universe punishing me for all the shitty things I’d done in my life, hurling me off into some other time and place? Was this my punishment for killing Cliff Prince and running away?
CHAPTER 9
I pushed through the heavy oak doors, feeling the rustling of my skirts, another new sensation. Entering the warm passenger terminal, I glanced up to see an impressive rotunda interior with a golden dome, which gave the room an extravagant elegance. The large white clock with black Roman numerals hanging from the ceiling said it was 10:25. That seemed farcical. A joke. Could time really be measured? What time? Whose time?
Amazed by the luxurious decor, I paused, taking in the white and brown marble floor, polished and gleaming. There were stained-glass windows and glowing amber gas lamps, gold leaf features and long, mahogany benches, where passengers sat, waiting for travel notices. They glanced up often to view a dark green, overhanging schedule board above the ticket windows, which announced departures and arrivals from Chicago, St. Louis and Kansas City.
Letting my mind ramble to escape the angst for what was to come, I wished I had my cellphone to snap photos of this vintage place, surely long gone in the twenty-first century. I stared at the vivid, unreal world that was truly surreal, as I gawked at women in dark dresses, stylish, long wrapping coats, and elaborate hats, some with their hands tucked inside fur muffs.
I observed men in richly styled overcoats and top hats or bowler hats, sporting mustaches and beards. Some lounged on a bench, their legs crossed, engrossed in a newspaper, while puffing a cigar.
Others perused magazines or newspapers at one of the two golden domed, central newsstands. The fragrance of vanilla polish, cigar smoke, and wax wafted through the area, creating a strange yet intriguing scent that I had never encountered before. It was both alluring and unappealing at the same time.
The porter cleared his throat, and I turned to him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve never been here before.” And then, to my embarrassment, I realized I didn’t have any money for a tip.
“Would you like me to park your trunk over by them benches, Miss?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be cool… I mean, nice.”
Next to a long bench, mostly unoccupied, he slid the trunk from his hand truck, stood and tipped two fingers to the bill of his cap.
I made a face of apology. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have any change.”
His smile was thin. “Not to worry none, Miss. A gentleman took care of it. Now, a good evening to you.”
I remained standing, because I didn’t know how to sit in that bustle dress, with the back sticking out like I had two asses. Nonchalantly, I observed women seated nearby. They were perched forward, the bustle providing a kind of padding between them and the back of the bench. Again, I thought, What an utterly stupid way to dress.
Now that I was here, who was I supposed to meet? Nellie hadn’t been clear. She’d said a coachman should be inside the passenger terminal looking for me. I didn’t see anyone looking for me.
I cast my anxious gaze over the open spaces, to the two circular newsstands and the tobacco shop. I glanced at The Mirror High Grade Candy Shop that had a big, black-and-white CLOSED sign on the front door. The quaint-looking tea shop was also closed.
I wondered how I looked, with no fresh makeup and my hair piled on top of my head, where Nellie had placed it before pinning on the hat. Did I look authentic to this time, or was it obvious that I was from the twenty-first century? Well, no one stared at me, and I guessed that was a good sign.
Easing down onto the bench, I inclined forward, feeling the corset tighten, feeling like a bear in all that clothes. I especially hated the corset. But when I unbuttoned my coat, the lovely dress was visible, and I had to admit it was a stunning work of art. Where had Nellie found it? It must have cost her a fortune. Maybe John Gannon paid for it?
A man passed and then paused, the gleam of seduction in his eyes. He touched the brim of his top hat, and then he winked at me. I sat up straighter. Was he the coachman? He didn’t look like a coachman, not that I knew what a coachman looked like, except for what I’d seen in movies.
I slid my eyes down and away from him. If it was the coachman, I’d let him speak first, but the man moved on.
In the open space, I heard the echo of footsteps and the whisper of conversation nearby. I saw porters pushing wooden carts, loaded with trunks like mine, and canvas bags, and leather suitcases.
No coachman approached. I grew edgy. My hands grew clammy. Had Nellie bullshited me? Had the whole thing been a lie? But why? It didn’t make sense, but then nothing made sense. Absolutely nothing.
What was I going to do? I saw a policeman, one of those policemen from an old black-and-white movie, wearing a helmet, a dark blue uniform with a stiff collar, polished brass buttons, and shiny black boots. He was swinging a police baton billy club. I couldn’t help but think, What a costumed drama! I also thought, I’m desperate, and I might have to ask him for help. He wandered the space with a stern expression, his handlebar mustache impressive, twirled up at the ends.
I’d need a good lie, or he might suspect something and toss me in jail. Then what? I had no identification and no money, and I didn’t know a single person in this town, or in the entire world. Yeah, he’d definitely toss me in jail.
Just then, I heard a deep voice say, “Miss Adams?”
I glanced up, to my right, and saw a 30s something hulking man, who had to be well over six feet. He had the blunt face of a fighter, a thick, reddish, blonde mustache and dull blue/gray eyes. Those eyes expanded on me in surprise as if he recognized me, and as if that recognition startled him.
He wore a below-the-waist sheepskin coat, dark pants and high, chocolate brown boots. With a hunter’s fur cap in his hand, he bowed awkwardly, his curly, chestnut hair long over the ears and carelessly combed to the side.
A bit scared of the man, I pushed to my feet, feeling Nellie’s shoes pinching my right big toe. “Yes… I’m… I’m…” and then my voice just fell off into the echo of the footsteps and muffled voices.
He finished it. “Miss Rosamond Adams?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes.”
He kept staring at me as if he were trying to understand something.
“Are you the coachman?” I asked thickly.
His lips were compressed with concern.
I repeated. “You are the coachman, aren’t you? I mean from… that mansion? I’m sorry, my head’s a little… I’m not thinking so good. It’s all the travel, I guess.”
He snapped out of his daydream or whatever. “Yes, Miss Adams, I am the coachman from the Gannon Mansion, come to fetch you.”
He didn’t offer his name, but I wanted to know it. “And what’s your name?”
He hesitated, then bowed stiffly again. “I’m Thomas. Thomas Dayton, ma’am.”
We stood still, him staring and not moving.
Finally, I said, “Should we go?”
Thomas jerked a nod. “Yes, Miss Adams. We’ve quite a distance to travel, and snow is in the wind, I think. Mrs. Grieve, the housekeeper, will be waiting for us to show you to your room, and she doesn’t take kindly to people arriving in the late hours.”
He had an odd accent I’d never heard before. Part Southern, part British… or an old Western accent?
“Is that your only trunk?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Thomas pulled on his fur cap, and I watched, impressed, as he hoisted the trunk with an easy effort, settled it on his right shoulder and led the way out of the train station. Outside, I stared in wonder at the carriages of all types waiting at the curb, some drawn by white horses, some black, some chestnut.
Thomas led me left through the dark night, away from the terminal traffic, along a packed dirt path. He stopped near a black enameled, enclosed carriage, with glass windows, two glowing side lanterns, and two magnificent looking black horses.
Snow flurries drifted down, creating a magical moment of sight and sound. The elegant carriage, the raven black horses with white vapor puffing from their nostrils, and the sound of wind whispering through the surrounding trees calmed me like a sedative. It was the first time I’d pulled an easy breath since I’d killed Cliff Prince.
In that soothing moment, I remembered something an old boyfriend used to say to me. He’d been a struggling writer, who seldom wrote and mostly drank. Anyway, he was full of quotes and, unfortunately, most of the time, also full of whiskey and full of dreams that would never come true.
But the quote by Kurt Vonnegut came clanging into my head like a ringing bell: “Be careful what you pretend to be, because you are what you pretend to be.”
Thomas tied the trunk securely to the rear of the carriage, then came around and helped me into the coach. I sat clumsily on a soft leather seat, squirmed and adjusted the dress, my butt, and my legs, until I was somewhat comfortable.
“Is everything to your liking, Miss Adams?” Thomas asked, watching me curiously.
“Yes, yes,” I said with forced confidence, unable to stop the modern slang from popping out of my mouth. “Yes, cool. No problem… I mean, good. It’s all good.”
“There’s a wool horsehair blanket to your right, and a muff for your hands, Miss Adams. Will you be needing anything else before we start off?”
“No, I’m good, thank you.”
A moment later, the coach lurched forward, and we started off into one of the darkest nights I’d ever seen. The ride was a bit bouncy, but the sway of the carriage was pleasant, with only the occasional jolt when the wheels hit a rough patch of road.
I draped the woolen blanket over my legs, slipped my hands into the very warm fur muff, and then eased back as much as I could, watching the feathery snowflakes drift by the windows.
The motion made me sleepy, and I nodded off several times, awaking with a start, my mind alive, speculating as to what I was about to face. How could I marry a man I didn’t know and live in this backward time? What would be expected of me? Wouldn’t they notice I wasn’t like them, didn’t have their manners and didn’t talk like them? If John Gannon realized I wasn’t the real Rosamond Adams, would he kick me out? Beat me? Kill me?
There was a time some years back when I’d wanted to write novels. Now I felt as though I were living one, and I had no idea how it would unfold or how it would all end.
One valuable lesson I’d learned in jail was, for as much as possible, keep your mouth shut and don’t let on how stupid and how scared you are. The more silent and mysterious you seem, the better. Inmates and female correction officers thought I was smarter than I was, or more dangerous than I was.
I figured that women in 1880 weren’t aggressive or outspoken, so I’d say little, observe much, and try not to offend anybody. With any luck, Mr. John Gannon wouldn’t approve of me, and he’d send me off with a few bucks in my purse.
If he did approve of me? I shuddered to think. I’d have to escape somehow and go where? I had no idea. Was there a possibility I could climb aboard another train, go east and enter that same tunnel and pass through the same time portal, or whatever it was, and return to the twenty-first century?
It was possible, wasn’t it? A slim possibility, but possible?
CHAPTER 10
We moved slowly along winding roads, through dark walls of tall trees that moved and wheezed in a sturdy wind. Once, the carriage stopped, and I thought we’d arrived, but I couldn’t see much of anything from the windows except black night and blurring snow. I heard the high, piercing cry of some wild animal close by, and it totally creeped me out. I slid down in the seat, cursing Nellie and Percy.
A moment later, the carriage advanced in fits and starts, taking a sharp bend with skillful care, then it went struggling up a hill, the back wheels fighting for traction.
Arriving at the Gannon Mansion shortly after 1 a.m., I finally saw the impressive estate. It emerged from the falling snow, resembling a solemn and shadowy fortress, adorned with large wrought-iron gas lanterns at the front entrance, and an enchanting wraparound porch that was a feast for the eyes.
As we drew closer, I was able to examine the red sandstone, Queen Anne-style mansion in detail. It boasted turrets, a steep roof with cross gables, and tall stone column entrance pillars, but the most striking feature was an ominous onion-domed tower.
The carriage stopped. I grabbed a quick breath, and Thomas opened the door and peered inside. “We have arrived, Miss Adams. I trust your ride was comfortable, despite the snow and the rough patches of road.”
“Yes, thank you.”
I took his broad, rough hand and stepped down into four inches of newly fallen snow. I glanced about at the surrounding snowy trees, whose names I didn’t know then but found out later: bristlecone pine, Colorado blue spruce, Douglas-fir, and narrowleaf cottonwood.
“If you follow me, Miss Adams, I’ll escort you to the house and carry your trunk in presently. Mr. Hopkins, the butler, has retired for the evening, but Mrs. Grieve will be waiting.”
I followed Thomas along a snowy stone walkway to the endless, wraparound porch, mounted the stairs, and stopped at a tall, heavy oak door with an impressive, golden, lion-face knocker.
The amber door lanterns cast Thomas in a soft glow, as he lifted the knocker and rapped twice.
A moment later, the tall door slowly opened, and a slim and staring woman gazed out, wearing a black dress, long to her ankles, high to her throat and covering her arms. She had a starched face, a tight mouth, and a tight bun on the top of her graying head. Her squinting, cool eyes said something like, “Don’t waste my time,” and her prominent, granite-hard jaw suggested a woman who didn’t mind a good argument or even a fistfight.
I tried to smile, but I couldn’t get my lips to do it.
Thomas removed his cap and said, “This is Miss Adams, Mrs. Grieve. Pardon me for the late hour, but the snow held us up some and the roads showed some ice.”
Mrs. Grieve flicked him an impatient glance. “A little too late is much too late. Bring up the trunk, Thomas, and then off with you to the carriage house. There’ll be some warm cider for you, so says young Dalton.”
Thomas nodded, turned, and left for the carriage.
Mrs. Grieve’s attention turned to me, and she gave me a curt once-over before her eyes revealed a moment’s surprise, and she glanced away. It was obvious she didn’t approve of what she saw. “Come on in then, girl,” she said, backing away.
My stomach twisted. The last thing I wanted was to enter that house. But I did, and Mrs. Grieve closed the tall, heavy door behind me. Was it an iron prison door clanging shut and locking me in?
Even in the soft lamplight, the spacious marble lobby was an impressive, echoing space, with stained-glass windows, a gaslight chandelier, and golden oak paneling. To my right was the parlor, with an elegant, black and gray marble fireplace, the fire gleaming, the room richly styled in burgundy and gold. Before me was a wide staircase with a broad, ornately carved wooden banister and thick, red carpeting that led to upper rooms.
Mrs. Grieve glanced at me. “Will you be wanting any refreshment? Mr. Gannon instructed me to ask.”
I shook my head. I was hungry, but it was too late to eat, and my stomach was a knot of nerves. “No, thank you. Could I just have some water, please?”
“There will be a pitcher and a glass in your room. Now follow me.”
We started up the staircase, the carpet soft like moss under my feet. On the second floor, we moved along a dimly lit, long hallway that seemed to go on for shadowy infinity.
I felt apprehension and loneliness, but I accepted them as we passed elaborately hand painted vases on pedestals, featuring artistic flower arrangements that scented the air.
And there were portraits hanging on the walls, stern men in black, staring back at me with accusing eyes, as if I were an intruder.
At the end of the hallway, Mrs. Grieve stopped, pulled a set of jangling keys from her dress pocket, found the key, inserted it, and opened the door, entering.
I hesitated, and she turned back to me, impatient. “Well, come in, girl.”
I bristled a little, and I wanted to say my name was Miss Adams, but I didn’t. Mrs. Grieve was my jailor and, at least for now, I needed to keep my mouth shut.
I stepped into a large, beautiful room, with a fire going in the white marble fireplace, and Victorian lamps with lace fabric lampshades, giving off a warm glow.
