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| CHAPTER 12 |
Chapter Twelve
“I have no need for ye, nor do
I want to hear yer plea.”
The bulging red eyes of the
notorious pirate Blackbeard glared across the table. The gigantic man sat
before Rick, leaning onto the table, shoveling some concoction that resembled
food into his face. The ship pitched to the right, and the huge man caught the
gruel with his forearm and sopped up the spillage with his sleeve.
Watching as the pirate rose,
Rick grimaced. Even through the room’s pale light, the sight of his dinner
remnants spattering the front of the pirate’s clothing and beard, mingled with
what looked to be slime and perhaps a little blood, sickened him. Blackbeard
snorted and then passed a lengthy spell of putrid gas. The giant grinned.
Rick’s own heart pounded in his
chest. “But I feel I can be of some service to you, sir.”
“I’ve no need for a bloody
pantywaist in fancy clothing.” Blackbeard’s eyes looked as though they could
burst from their sockets. He lunged forward and grabbed Rick’s hand.
The stench of the man as he
drew nearer was nauseating. Rick swallowed hard and looked into the face of the
Devil himself. Quickly, he pulled his hand away from the pirate’s caked and
greasy palm, resisting the temptation to swipe away the grime on his trouser
leg.
“Be gone with ye, ye bloody
bastard! I’ve no use for ye. ‘Tis no service ye could provide for me short of
dumping me slop overboard!”
He couldn’t leave. This was his
best and only chance. To have the whole of Blackbeard’s treasure laid at his
feet was more than he could fathom. His dreams of power and riches were at
hand. He savored the metallic taste of the silver-plated cup in his mouth and then
looked to Blackbeard and gave him a sly grin. No. He wouldn’t give up.
“I have names that you need to
know. Names you need to fear.”
The giant roared. “I have no
fears! The Devil has no fears, nor do I! You should be afeared of me. The world
fears me!”
“I have no fear of you.” Rick
braced his stance, prepared for the onslaught. “I worship you.”
Blackbeard swirled in a
complete circle, swinging his cutlass around his head until he stopped dead
center in his quarters, with the cutlass pointed at a spot just below Rick’s
Adam’s apple. As the infamous pirate stepped closer, Rick held strong. He would
achieve what he sought.
“Worship me! What caliber of
man worships another? And what, pray tell, do you think ye can offer me?”
In a heartbeat, Rick answered. His
knowledge of Blackbeard’s history was about to pay off. His lips twisted into a
smirk. “Names, sir. Names of people you should avoid at all cost. And places. Dates.
And if you can give me some time, locations of ships full of treasure just ripe
for the picking.” The cutlass dug a little further into his throat, and he was
sure it drew blood.
“Names, you say? Give them to
me now. Who are these people I should dread?”
Refusing to buckle to the
pirate’s wrath, he continued while keeping contact with his narrowed gaze. “Alexander
Spotswood, for one. Robert Maynard, for another.”
“Spotswood? The Governor of
Virginia? Bah! I’ve no fear of him.”
“He will order your death.”
Watching Blackbeard’s eyes
widen further, he felt the prick of the cutlass jab deeper and then release. Dropping
his arm to his side, he studied Rick.
“And who be this Maynard?”
Praying he was doing the right
thing, Rick took a deep breath and continued, “The man who will see to your
death.”
The great pirate only stared at
him for several minutes. Without warning, he spun again and laughed a full,
lengthy belly laugh that echoed throughout the quarters and up onto the ship’s
deck.
He stopped dead center in the
cabin and cocked his head to one side. “Yer a seer, are ya?”
In agreement, Rick nodded
slowly. “I know things.”
Blackbeard’s gruff voice
returned. “Ye may stay for a while, but if ye prove to be a useless piece of
shit, and if ye get in my way, I’ll have yer head for dinner! Now, who may ye
be?”
Inwardly smiling his relief,
but not daring to show it to the great man who stood before him, the man he
certainly did idolize and wished he were more like, Rick answered, “My name is
Richard Gentry.”
After another pause, Blackbeard
stumbled closer until Rick could see the foul yellow of his eyes.
“Well, Richard Gentry, I have
me first request. If ye pass muster, we’ll talk further. If not, I’ll set ye
adrift on the open sea like any common witch, ye understand?”
Rick exhaled. It seemed he’d
been holding his breath for a millennium. “What is this task,” he asked, not
blinking an eye.
“The task,” the pirate spit
back, “is to bring me a woman. And if ye know things as ye say, ye’ll know
exactly the one.”
****
Every day for two weeks, Claire
walked to the stone. She’d studied the inscription and contemplated its meaning
and intent. It was a puzzle, to be sure, but slowly, she was gaining headway.
While Jack worked or fished or
tended to his farming, she learned her way around the area. She’d not seen a
solitary person since she’d been there, so she’d decided Hannah’s clothing
needed some alteration. What would it matter? No one but Jack ever saw her
anyway. And it was too damned hot to wear layer upon layer of clothing. How
Hannah stood it, she didn’t know.
But Hannah, even though Claire
felt like she knew her at times, was not entirely like her. She couldn’t be. Hannah
was more reserved, gentler, and probably would have never thought of crossing
Jack’s wishes. There’s where they were different. Claire cared for Jack, she
knew she did right from the very beginning, but her contemporary upbringing
would in no way allow her to be docile and obedient.
Unless of course she wanted to
be those things.
Certainly though, Hannah wouldn’t
have ripped her clothing to shreds in an indecent manner, at least for the times,
as Claire was about to do.
The skirt was all right, long
and loose and comfortable, but the chemise had to go. That morning after Jack
left, she’d loosened the stitching at the shoulders and removed the long
sleeves and then ripped the entire bottom length off the thing from about the
waist down, making herself a sleeveless blouse. To humor Jack, she slipped her
arms though the openings of the corset and laced it over the blouse. It did
help to support her breasts, since she didn’t have a bra. She thought she
looked somewhat like Heidi, but then laughed off the thought. She was anywhere
but the Alps, and she looked nothing like a ten-year-old girl. And besides, she
was having wicked thoughts of what Jack might think of how she looked in the
corset sans chemise later tonight.
Forget the bonnet. Forget
the apron.
She felt like a three-year-old
when she put them on.
I might have to live in the
eighteenth century, but I don’t have to concede to their clothing. Maybe I’ll
start a trend.
She was dressed in just that
manner when she returned from the beach later that afternoon and Jack, for the
first time, witnessed the alterations. She knew instinctively, before she’d
even reached within ten yards of him, that he didn’t like it.
“What happened there with your clothing?”
he asked as she drew nearer. Then panic washed over his face. “Are you all
right? Did someone try to harm you?” He rushed forward. “Lord in heaven! Your
chemise is ripped and your shoulders are sunburned red as a lobster!”
Claire glanced down at one
shoulder. It was red, but no worse than any other sunburn she’d ever had. She
normally tanned quite easily and rarely blistered after a burn; she didn’t
suspect this one would either.
“Just a little red,” she
mumbled and then lifted her eyes to his. “How was your day?”
“My day?”
For some reason, he appeared
angry. “I asked you a question, woman. What happened to you? If someone harmed
you, just tell me and I’ll…”
She stepped closer, smiled
sweetly, and then placed a peck on his cheek. “Calm down, Jack. Nothing
happened to me. I just got hot, that’s all.”
He stared back. “You mean you did that to your clothing?”
“It was hot.”
Anger raced over his face. But
there was something else, too. Desire? She was hot and sweaty, so much so that
the cotton fabric of the chemise-blouse stuck to her like something out of a
spring break wet T-shirt contest. She glanced lower. Her breasts, just above
the area where the corset left off, were peaked and her hard nipples made an
outward protrusion beneath the damp fabric. Her skirt, wet at the bottom from her
walk near the sound’s edge, hung close to her ankles, its weight pulling at the
fabric around her waist.
“You can’t go around like that!”
“And why not?”
His stance broadened. He placed
fists on either hip and fully faced her. “Because you can’t, that’s all. Someone
may see you!”
Claire chuckled. “Who in the
hell is going to see me, Jack? I’ve been here two weeks now and I’ve seen no
one but you. Are you sure it’s not just that I arouse you a little dressed like
this?”
He jerked forward, seemed to
contemplate her question, and then evidently chose to ignore it. “It isn’t
ladylike. You need your bonnet and apron when you go out. You can’t show your shoulders
like that and your skirt, the way it hugs your body, I can almost see through
it. You’d think there was nothing on underneath! What have you done to your
chemise?” He slipped a finger under the cotton fabric at her shoulder.
Instinctively she stepped
backward and glared.
“Don’t you take another step. What
I wear is of no concern to you. It’s hot, Jack, and I’ll be damned if I’m going
to wear all those layers. I’ll die of heat exhaustion!”
“I asked you what you had on
underneath the skirt. What’s happened to your chemise?” His brows knit
together, determined. “Now let me see.”
Her eyes widened. “You want to
see what’s under my skirt?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
He exhaled impatiently. “I
said, yes.”
With a slight tug, the weight
of the waterlogged fabric dropped from her hips. It pooled around her ankles
leaving her naked from the waist down. Her gaze stayed glued to his face, and
she watched with amusement as his expression turned from one of anger…to
desire…to anger…and back again.
Finally, he stared at the small
golden triangle just below the point of her corset. His lips parted as she
stood silently watching him. Again, she noticed the influx and release of a
slow, deep breath, and then he shook his head from side to side.
She
reached down to her golden curls and flicked a forefinger through them.
“Hannah…” he warned.
She trailed that forefinger
over her mound, teasing him. He didn’t, or couldn’t, look away.
“See anything you like?”
He tore his gaze upward. “Stop
doing that. Now.”
Giggling, she continued. “Ah,
come on, Jack. You know you see something here you like.” Why was she taunting
him? Perhaps it was because in all his affronted manliness, he somehow seemed
so…innocent?
She dipped two fingers deeper
between her legs.
He moved closer. “Hannah! I
forbid you to touch yourself like—”
“Forbid me to do what?” Slowly,
she brought her fingers up to her mouth and sucked on them.
He rushed to her and grabbed
both of her hands. “Stop! Dammit, woman! I…”
She held his gaze, didn’t
falter. He halted, her hand inches from his face, his breathing labored. Slowly,
he slid his gaze over to her fingers laced within his, brought them to his own
mouth and sucked, his eyes closed, and then tugged her closer.
This time Claire trembled with
desire. “You like that, Jack,” she whispered. “Don’t you? Admit it. Seeing me
touch myself made you hard and you want me.”
He nuzzled into her neck, his
teeth raking across her pulse. “Changes. I can’t seem to remember sometimes
that you are her, but then you are not.”
“But these changes turn you on.
And you like it.”
He pulled back, studied her
face. Then he trailed a solitary forefinger toward her breast. He lightly
touched one sensitive nipple through the damp cotton.
“You make me hard,” he
admitted. “And yes, I like it. You have lost your inhibitions and you share
that with me. I want that. I do not like to think of other men ogling you when
you look like that though. You cannot, Hannah, ever be in the presence of
another man dressed like this.”
She shook her head. “No, Jack. I
wouldn’t. I understand that. I…”
“It is also disturbing to me
that you do not want to obey my wishes, as a dutiful wife should—but then…I
believe I rather prefer the surprises you bring.”
She reached up and grasped his
hand in hers and then placed it on her bare hip. “And what surprises might
those be?” She dismissed the “dutiful little wife” comment until later. This
was not the time or place.
He sucked in a quick breath. His
other hand closed over her opposite hip and he dragged her closer, his fingers
kneading into her flesh. He lowered his lips to hers, barely scraping them. “Each
day is a surprise, Hannah. Each day you bring me more than the one before. It’s
just that I’m not used to you this way yet.”
“What way? Tell me.”
“Like…like this. The way that
you are right now. Like you’ve been since you’ve been back. So…” He trailed his
lips down her throat until he met the cleavage of her breasts. He thrust
himself closer into her bare pelvis. She clearly felt his arousal.
“Sexy?”
“Umm?”
“Seductive? Easy? Uninhibited?”
She whispered as she clutched his head to her breast, relishing in his tongue
dipping beneath the cotton.
The thing is, Jack, I was
never this way before. It’s only with you.
His head jerked up and met her
gaze. “So full of passion…surprises.”
“You like that?”
One finger pulled at the laces
holding the corset together, and then he plunged both hands under the fabric,
loosening the laces fully, and palmed both breasts. Soon she stood naked before
him. Reaching out, she undid the front closures of his shirt. He didn’t flinch,
but let her undress him as they stood in the hot afternoon sun in front of
their cabin.
She enfolded the fingers of one
hand around his hard length.
He shuddered.
“Hannah…would never do…that.” He
spoke between ragged breaths.
“She never touched you? Like
this?”
She watched his face as she
stroked him, her touch feather-light on his swollen shaft. His eyes rolled back
in his head with unbridled pleasure and he wavered, slightly, standing there. She
wondered if he was fighting an internal battle. Knowing, and yet not knowing,
she wasn’t Hannah; that they were different people.
She would make him see the
difference.
“No, Hannah probably wouldn’t
do this,” she whispered. “But I would.”
She nudged closer, pressed her
hips to his, and slid him between her legs, supporting his cock between her
thighs. Reaching around, she kneaded his rear and pulled him as close into her
as she possibly could.
He pushed in between her legs,
pumped in and out slowly, building friction. She was hot. Wet. And she loved
the feel of him there. He moaned, and then he grasped her face, cupping her
cheeks in both hands, and heatedly kissed her. When he was through, she drew
back only slightly and breathed heavily against his cheek.
In one swift moment, Jack
lifted her and she wrapped her legs around him. His shaft penetrated her
thoroughly and with a wild abandoned shriek, she felt his hot length take
her…filling her…possessing her as she’d never before been possessed.
****
Jack had been patient with her
as a “wife” since he didn’t really understand that she hated housework and
domesticity. Well, hate was probably too strong a word. It was just that it
wasn’t her thing. She liked numbers and figures and cutting to the chase. She
didn’t like dust cloths and broom handles. But she had found herself hand
washing some of their clothing and hanging them out on a makeshift clothesline.
And she’d swept and dusted and straightened the little cabin until it shined,
more out of sheer boredom than anything else. But Jack had never asked her to
cook for him. Not until the previous night.
He wanted her to bake bread.
Bread. Oh my God. How in the
world am I going to pull this one off?
But the thought that startled
her most was she really hadn’t minded doing these things, and if Jack wanted
bread, she would try to provide it for him.
Geez! What am I turning into?
Rising, she briefly washed and then
dressed. Jack was gone for the day—scavenging and fishing he’d told her—and she
had the cabin to herself. At loose ends as to what she would do with the rest
of her day, she thought perhaps she could put the bread making off. It wasn’t as
if she actually knew what she was doing, anyway.
After wandering the cabin for a
while, she took a brief walk outside. Bored, she went back inside. Plopping
down on the bed, she longed for a juicy book to while away the afternoon. Or a
magazine. Newspaper. Cereal box.
Anything.
And then it dawned on her. It
would be like this every day Jack was gone. What it would be like every day of
her life if she stayed here.
In this century. Forever.
What a lonely existence Jack
Porter had on this island. How in the world could a woman take all this? Lord. This
was what it would be like for the rest of her life. Even though she
cared for Jack and shared a deep sense of connection with him, she wasn’t sure
if she could take it. Could she resign herself to living this lonely life?
Suddenly she longed to nail a
closing on a prime piece of real estate.
But that wasn’t to be.
She shook off the thought. It
was easier and simpler to just think about making bread. Something menial and
manual. Something to occupy her hands, not her brain. Or her heart.
All right, Claire. Just do
it.
She stared at the fireplace. The
thing took up nearly the entire back wall of the cabin.
Bake bread indeed.
Not once in her life had she
baked bread. When was there time? And who in their right mind would want to,
anyway?
The thing was though, if she
were living in her own century, she’d probably have a good idea of what she was
supposed to do. She’d find a cookbook, go to the grocery store, call Vicki…
Claire snapped her fingers and
glanced around the room. Cookbook. Any self-respecting 18th century woman worth
her salt probably had a cookbook—or some semblance of one anyway.
Okay, so where would Hannah
keep it?
Slowly turning on her heel, she
glanced from one piece of furniture to another. Up until now, she’d not dared
to explore the contents of the cabin—she’d never felt up to doing so. And now
she was supposed to bake bread. But she needed a recipe. So, she’d have to
snoop…or rather, search for one, right?
Right.
There was a small cabinet next
to the fireplace, and she suspected it would be the most obvious place to look.
She peeked inside. What was she doing? What if she found out something she didn’t
like? What if she found out Jack was a murderer or something? Murdered ol’
Hannah in her sleep!
She chuckled. Jack was no
murderer. Just a man. An incredibly sexy, gorgeous man, who was perhaps just a
tad chauvinistic, but not beyond the realm of what was expected in his time. She
cared for him, and he expected bread, did he say in the morning? Well,
surely to goodness it wouldn’t take twenty-four hours. Why, if he wanted bread,
that’s what he would get. And he would get it tonight. Obviously the makings
were around here somewhere, and if he expected it, she would just have to look
around for it, wouldn’t she?
Yes, she would.
Triumphant, Claire grasped the
cabinet handle and pulled it fully open, sniffed appreciatively at the aromas
wafting out. She reached for the tiny wooden boxes inside. Spices. Honest to
goodness spices! But upon closer inspection, she realized that the containers
were nearly empty; only their fragrances lingered behind. Then another
container caught her eye. Some type of decanter.
She lifted it and then removed
its lid. A quick whiff and her head tossed backward. The pungent fumes
penetrated her nostrils.
Rum. Very strong rum.
She returned it to the shelf
and closed the door. Well, she thought, unless she was making rum cake, she’d
better get busy on the other ingredients and find a recipe. Otherwise, she
might be tempted to forego the bread and indulge in the rum, forgetting this
entire scenario all together.
Panning the room, her gaze fell
on the chest against the far wall. As if drawn to it, she walked across the
room and stood before the massive box. She felt compelled to search through
it—almost as if it was the thing she was supposed to do. She remembered Jack
opening it once before, when he had retrieved Hannah’s clothing. She had a
brief moment’s hesitation before she opened the lid.
Did she dare look? But if the
trunk contained Hannah’s things, then perhaps there would be recipes. And
perhaps she would find out a little more about Hannah herself. It was strange,
but since her arrival in the eighteenth century, there were things which seemed
familiar, but about which she could know nothing. And now, as she stood in
front of this carved, heavy chest, it felt like she’d done so a thousand times
before.
Reaching out, she stroked the
soft, polished wood, worn by the fingertips of time. A tingling sensation
traveled up her hands to her arms and shoulders and then settled deep in her
abdomen. Claire knelt before the chest and took a deep breath before placing
her hands on the wooden lid. Slowly, she pushed the lid back until it sat on
its hinges, leaning against the cabin wall.
At
first she was hesitant to look inside. She sat back on her haunches and
closed her eyes, almost fearful of interfering with the possessions of a woman
long gone. But after she sat there for a few minutes, she gathered enough
courage to peek over the edge. When she did, she let out a long sigh, not
realizing she’d been holding her breath, and then reached over to touch the
first objects her eyes rested upon.
There were several articles of
clothing similar to the ones she now wore. Another corset, two chemises, two
skirts, the pantaloon type things, three bonnets and two aprons. After lifting
these items one by one and carefully placing them on the floor, she again
peered into the chest. There was a pair of shoes—a low boot type of shoe with a
buckle across the top. The leather was very stiff and, she thought, quite
uncomfortable looking. She’d just as soon go barefoot. And along with the shoes
were two pair of thick stockings. Neither of these items looked as though they’d
had much wear, so she assumed Hannah didn’t wear them often either.
Rising onto her knees so she
could reach further into the chest, she lifted out several other items and
placed them one by one on the floor beside her: a small wooden box tied with a
leather strap, a leather-bound book that she suspected to be a journal, and a
large Bible.
Picking up the wooden box, she
turned and sat against the chest, placing the box in her lap. Carefully, she
released the leather tie and lifted off the lid. It was an ornately carved
little box, and when she removed he lid, she instantly smelled cedar. Inside,
there was a pincushion with several pins and two threaded needles, several
loops of thread, two skeins of floss, some folded panels of white cotton, a
thimble, a blue ribbon, and deep in the bottom, several letters wrapped with a
dull red ribbon. Shoving the other items out of the way, she hesitantly picked
up the bundle of letters. As if interfering in something she should not, she
simply held them in her hands and looked at the script running across the
envelopes. Miss Hannah Amalie Bell. She sensed the letters were from Jack. Somehow,
she knew it.
She held the packet in her
hands. She had no right—no right whatsoever—to read these. No right at all to
pry into the past life of the man with whom she now shared an existence.
Nor that of his former lover.
Claire dropped the letters into
her lap, closed her eyes and leaned her head against the chest. She wouldn’t do
it. It was none of her business. But then another voice broke into her
thoughts. If you read them, you will know more about Jack, what he is like,
what pleases him, what kind of a man he is. You are living with a man about
whom you know nothing.
Glancing back down into her
lap, she seized the letters and stared at them. Turning them sideways, she
thumbed her fingers along the edges, counting each one. Seven. Eight. Nine.
Nine letters in all.
Were these courting letters?
Had Jack met her on the
mainland and then pined for her when he was back on the island? Did he find it
unbearable to be without her?
Maybe I need to read them.
And then, maybe I don’t.
She carefully laid the bundle
in the chest deciding now was not the right time to invade Jack and Hannah’s
private world.
She picked up the journal. A
niggling of the same feelings swept over her, but she swiftly abandoned them. Letters
were personal. This was not so much. Not that a journal wasn’t personal, it
was, but she found it much easier to read the woman’s thoughts than to read a
lover’s words written for someone else. And she couldn’t do that to Jack. But
Hannah wasn’t here anymore, so reading her journal wasn’t nearly as sinful as
reading her love letters.
She guessed.
She leafed through the pages. Within,
were all sorts of recordings. Not only personal entries about the comings and
goings and the social lifestyles in Bath
Town
Finally, she came to where Jack
Porter had entered Hannah Bell’s life. Claire read the entire section, learning
only that Hannah had thought Jack the most handsome man she’d ever seen. So
mannerly and gentleman-like, she wrote. He came whenever the merchant ships hit
Bath Town, or when he could catch a ship crossing the inlet that required a
pilot. He came calling whenever he could, although her parents did not
necessarily approve. But soon Hannah had confessed her love for Jack, within
the pages of her journal at least, if not to him then, and later agreed to be
his wife.
There was one journal entry
concerning an argument Jack had had with her father, who had insisted they
reside in Bath Town. Jack insisted he must stay on the island. Hannah only
wanted to live with Jack, be his wife, bear his children, and it mattered not
where they resided. Finally, Hannah wrote that her father gave in, she married
Jack, and he moved her to his island home.
She turned one more page to
find it empty save for a few words.
The date was August of 1717, a
little over a year earlier, two months after she and Jack were married. The
letters stood out against the white journal pages.
I want to go home.
Then for the remaining pages,
there was nothing. A chill traveled up Claire’s spine as she finally leafed
back to the last words. Why would a woman who made an effort to write her
thoughts in this book so frequently suddenly stop? And what was the meaning of
those last words?
She would never know. She could
argue the point internally all day long, but the result would be the same. She
simply would never know. All Claire could do was guess, and the most obvious
guess was that Hannah was not as happy as Jack let on. Perhaps Hannah was
lonely, too. Did Jack know?
She closed the book and laid it
alongside the wooden box and the bundles of letters in the trunk. The last item
was the Bible. She sighed.
Enough snooping for one day.
But as she held the large Bible
in her hands, she found herself drawn to it. Settling back down to a seated
position on the floor, she laid it on her lap and carefully fingered the carved
backing of the book.
A vague remembrance tickled the
recesses of her mind. She paused, glanced off. Why did this seem familiar?
She wasn’t sure and opened the
thick cover.
Upon turning the page, she
realized just how delicate and special the Bible was. Reverently, she turned
several of the pages starting about two-thirds of the way back. When the pages
fanned out to the center, stiffer pages stopped the motion, and the Bible lay
open in front of her. A family Bible. Complete with the family lineage.
Placing a gentle finger over
the names carefully written there, she leaned forward, almost squinting, to see
the names. The dates of births and deaths and marriages spanned over a hundred
years. Claire skimmed the names with her finger, tracing the lineage until she
reached Hannah and Jack’s entry. And there it was, in black and parchment
white, staring back up at her. Hannah Amalie Bell married to Jackson Miller
Porter, 15 June 1717.
For Eternity.
She gasped. The same
inscription as in her ring. For Eternity.
What the hell was that supposed
to mean? That this was fate? That she was supposed to take over Hannah’s body? That
she was born with Hannah’s soul?
Glancing once more at the names
linked before her, she almost grew enraged at the entire situation. This was
her life someone was playing with here.
Her life!
But if she were stuck here,
then by God she would stake a claim to it. All of it!
She rose quickly to her feet. She
knew that somewhere in this cabin there had to be the items she needed. After
rifling through some of Jack’s things in a chest with drawers, the cabinet with
spices, and some small wooden boxes stuffed under the bed, she finally found
them. Not sure how they worked, but it didn’t matter. She would do what she had
set out to do, and the simple matter that she didn’t know beans about how to
write with a quill pen and ink didn’t faze her.
So she returned to the Bible. After
a few practice swipes on a blank sheet of the parchment in the back, Claire set
out to finish her task. Directly underneath Hannah and Jack’s betrothed names
and the date, she wrote two things. The first: Hannah Amalie Bell Porter, died
May 21, 1718. Then, with shaking hands, the second: Hannah Claire Winslow
betrothed to Jackson Miller Porter.
When it came to the date, she
faltered. They’d not actually married, had they? But it seemed as if they were.
Perhaps, we will. Someday. Did she want that?
Damn! What am I saying here?
Am I saying that I want to marry Jack and stay here forever?
The ink dried and Claire stared
down at the words she’d hastily written in the Bible, feeling somewhat guilty
about writing in someone else’s property. She doubted Jack ever went through
Hannah’s things.
But as she looked at the
writing a bit longer, a chill traveled up her back and settled around her
heart. Even with Claire’s shaky handwriting and her clumsiness using the quill
pen, she could see the similarities. Stroke for stroke, Claire’s handwriting
matched that of Hannah Porter.
She drifted. Her mind spun. A
dizzying sense of otherworldliness overtook her.
Before. She’d seen these pages
before. When?
Stunned, she closed the book,
not caring if it smeared, and placed the Bible back in the chest. She layered
Hannah’s clothing on top and closed the hinged lid. Turning back to stare at
the empty cabin, too many thoughts jumbled up the control panels of her brain.
She was going into overload. Confused.
Too much to think about.
She couldn’t live like this for
the rest of her life.
Exhausted, she climbed onto the
bed she’d been sharing with Jack, covered herself with the thin, small
coverlet, and momentarily slept her fears away. She no longer cared that she
hadn’t baked bread. Jack would just have to deal with it.
###
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