The Time Travelers: Volume One

  The woman who did not marry ceased to have value, and Ada’s value had ended long, long ago. The woman who did not marry had to beg, and Ada had begged from Hiram Stratton a place in his home, and been assigned the task of chaperoning Harriett.

  He paid Ada nothing.

  She had a room with a bath; she had clothing suitable for her station; she had a place in the family railcar and on the family yacht and at the family table. Last place.

  But Ada had no money. Quite literally, Ada had not one penny. Not one silver dollar. Even the Irish maid earned money. Not once in her adult life—which was a long one—had Ada been able to make a purchase without groveling and begging for permission.

  A few months ago, Ada had overheard a conversation between Devonny and Harriett. “The minute you’re wed to my brother,” said Devonny, “you must get rid of Aunt Ada.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Harriett. “Can you imagine spending my entire life with that old hag marching at my heels?”

  Ada was a hag, and she knew it. She was forced to know it by the mirrors that covered the walls as sheets cover beds. Wife number one had put up those mirrors, and wives two through four were so vain and so fond of their reflections that they had not taken them down. Little triangular sections of primping females—or females too ugly to bother, like Ada—reflected a thousand times in each great room.

  Get rid of me? thought Ada. And where would I go then?

  The village had a poorhouse, of course. A farm to which the failures of society were sent, Ada supposed, to plant and dig turnips.

  I may have become an old hag, Harriett Ranleigh, but I am not a fool, and if you are going to get rid of me when you marry young Mr. Stratton, then the first thing I will do is prevent the marriage. The second thing I will do is acquire enough money to be safe without you, Harriett Ranleigh.

  Ada rubbed her hands together. They were cold dry hands.

  She was a cold dry woman. In her youth, she had tried to be warm and affectionate, like other girls. But it had not worked for her, and no man had asked for such a hand in marriage. In middle age, Ada tried to make friends of neighbors and relatives. This failed. When Mr. Stratton had asked her to supervise his motherless ward, Harriett, Ada had thought she might love this little girl. But she had not grown to love Harriett, and as the years went by, Ada realized that she did not know how to love anybody.

  This knowledge no longer caused her grief. She no longer wept at night. She simply became more angry, more dry, and more cold.

  She usually wore gloves, as much to keep her hands warm as to be fashionable. The fingernails were yellow and ridged and looked like weapons.

  Today, thinking of Harriett, whom she hated and feared, Ada raked them suddenly through the air, as if ripping the skin off Harriett’s face. Across the room Ada saw shock on the face of the little Irish maid.

  “Get out,” said Ada, glaring. Ada despised the Irish. The country should never have let them in. It was disgusting, the way immigrants from all those worthless countries were just sailing up and strolling onto dry land. They were even commemorating immigrants now, as if it were a good thing! That ridiculous new Statue of Liberty the young people insisted they had to see! Disgraceful.

  She tucked her shawl tightly against the high-collared moiré dress, and the fabrics rasped like her thoughts. You cannot waste time being fearful, Ada ordered herself. You must channel your energy into being strong and hard. There is nobody who cares about you. Nobody. You must do all the caring yourself. And if damage is done while you are taking care, remember that men do damage all the time, and never even notice.

  Ada smiled suddenly, and it was good that little Bridget was not there to see the smile. The lowering ends of Ada’s thin lips were full of fear and rage.

  And full of plans for Harriett.

  CHAPTER 4

  Walker Walkley liked the finer things in life. He did not have enough of them, but if he planned right, he could acquire enough. Throughout boarding school Walk had cultivated Strat. Strat liked company, and did not understand what this friendship cost him, either in money or in pretense.

  Walk had managed to live like Strat, and off Strat, for four wonderful years, and now he was going on to Yale with Strat, but it might not be that easy to sponge at college. Walk needed certainty, and he had pretty well decided on Strat’s sister, Devonny.

  Strat would be delighted. And Devonny, handily, was much too young for marriage, so Walk would become affianced to Devonny, and have all the family privileges, but he could postpone actually bothering with Devonny for years.

  Strat would be spending July at Walk’s lodge in the Adirondacks. It was run-down and primitive now, the twelve bedrooms in desperate need of refurbishing, the immense screened veranda over the lake in worse need of repair and paint, but Strat never noticed these things, and if he did, would assume that hunting lodges were supposed to look like that. Musty old stuffed moose heads on the wall and rotting timber in the floor.

  Walk worried about discussing the finances with Mr. Stratton senior, who was a tough and hostile man under the best of circumstances. He might not look kindly upon a youth whose purse was empty. He might feel Devonny should marry up, rather than down. Therefore Walk must dedicate himself this summer to being sure that Devonny fell in love with him.

  Of course, Harriett Ranleigh had the most money of all. Plain women were easy. A few flattering lies and you owned them. But Strat had Harriett by her corset ties. The rich always figured out a way to get richer.

  Walk controlled his jealousy, as he had controlled it for so many years, and planned his flirtation with Devonny Stratton.

  In the kitchen, the maids washed a cut glass punch bowl so big that two girls had to support it while the third bathed it in soapy water. The raised pineapple designs were cut so sharply they hurt the maids’ hands.

  The gardener’s boys had brought armloads of flowers into the house, and for a moment or two, Florinda supervised the arranging of flowers. But when her friend Genevieve appeared, ready to take a turn around the garden, Florinda called Bridget. “Get my parasol, Bridget. You hold it for me.” Florinda’s wrists tired easily.

  Bridget had not finished polishing. She would get in trouble for not completing the job, but she would get in trouble for not obeying Miss Florinda too. In neither case were excuses permitted. Bridget fetched the parasol, and walked behind the ladies, her arm uncomfortably outstretched to protect Miss Florinda from the sun.

  The sun bore down on Bridget’s face, however, and multiplied her freckles. Jeb loved her freckles. He had kissed them all, individually. Now there would just be more to kiss.

  Bridget permitted herself a huge, cheek-splitting grin of joy when Miss Florinda and Miss Genevieve were not looking. Servants were not permitted emotion.

  Harriett and Devonny set up the croquet game, for the grass had dried quickly in the ocean breeze. Strat failed to return, and even Walk wasn’t around. The great Mansion felt oddly deserted, and the air felt strangely thin, as though something were about to happen.

  “Ladies,” said a booming voice.

  Harriett steeled herself to be courteous. She knew the voice well. It was Mr. Rowwells, who had some sort of business connection with Strat’s father. Naturally the details were never discussed in front of the ladies.

  Mr. Rowwells was perhaps ten years older than Harriett, maybe even fifteen. Nobody liked him. Especially Harriett.

  Devonny therefore spent lots of time trying to make Mr. Rowwells think Harriett adored him. Harriett had considered throwing Devonny off the tower roof if she did it again, but Devonny just giggled and whispered to Mr. Rowwells that Harriett would probably love to go for a carriage ride with him that evening. It had seemed just a joke between the girls, but now, threatened by Strat’s half-dressed young woman, she saw Mr. Rowwells more clearly as a man who wanted a wife.

  “Why don’t we start our game of croquet,” suggested Mr. Rowwells, “since the young gentlemen appear to have started their own
game without us.”

  How fraught with meaning the sentence was. Harriett quivered. Was Mr. Rowwells hinting that Strat’s game included a different young lady? Had Mr. Rowwells also seen the bare-legged girl kissing Strat?

  Harriett lifted her chin very high. It was a habit that helped keep emotion off her face, providing a slope down which pain and worry would run, like rainwater. “Why, Mr. Rowwells, what a good idea. Devonny, you and Mr. Rowwells be partners. I shall run inside and see who else is available to—”

  But they never found a fourth for croquet.

  One of the maids began screaming, and from the windows opened wide for the sea breeze, they heard her curdling shrieks for help.

  Mr. Rowwells of course got there first, because Devonny and Harriett were hampered by long skirts and by the corsets that kept them vertical. Mr. Rowwells didn’t want the young ladies to see what had happened, and cried that they were to keep their distance. Harriett would have obeyed, but Devonny believed that a thing grown-ups told you to keep a distance from would prove a thing worth seeing, and so she elbowed through the servants, and Harriett followed.

  It was one of the servants.

  Dead.

  He had fallen on the steep dark back stairs that led to the kitchen in the cellar, and he had cracked his skull.

  His eyes were open to the ceiling, and spilled on his chest were the sweet cakes and sherry he’d been carrying. The silver tray was half on top of him, like armor.

  “Matthew!” cried Devonny, horrified. She tried to go to him, but it was impossible, for he was lying awkwardly upside down on steps too narrow for her to kneel beside him.

  Matthew had been with them for years. Every spring when they opened up the Mansion, she was always glad to see Matthew, and see how his children had grown, and give them her old dresses. What a terrible thing! Matthew had five children, only three old enough for grammar school. What would become of them?

  Devonny was her father’s daughter. Before she was anything else, she was practical. She stared at the glittering silver tray. To whom had Matthew been carrying that?

  Certainly not Father. He detested sherry.

  Florinda, who adored sherry, was strolling with Genevieve, who had come hoping to get a donation for the Episcopal church. Aunt Ada, had she wanted sherry, would have had to wait for Florinda and Genevieve to return. Would Walker Walkley have dared order sherry? Would Mr. Rowwells?

  The stairs were covered with ridged rubber, to prevent slipping. The ceiling was very low, so that the servants had to stoop. The treads of the Great Hall stair formed the ceiling of the kitchen stairs. One tread was rimmed in blood.

  “Get up, young lady,” snapped Aunt Ada. She took Devonny’s arm in pincers like a lobster’s, roughly propelling her away from the body. Swiftly Aunt Ada bundled Devonny and Harriett into the library, whose thick doors and solid walls would prevent the girls from learning a single thing.

  “The poor babies,” whispered Harriett, who had played with them many times, chalking out hopscotch, and twirling jump ropes and sharing cookies. “No father.”

  No father meant no home. Without Matthew’s work here in the Mansion, Devonny’s father would not permit that big family to take up space above the stable.

  “Do you think Father will provide for the babies, Harry?” Devonny cried, using the old nursery nickname. Harriett was touched, but she knew well, as did Devonny, that Mr. Stratton was not a charitable man.

  “It is hardly his responsibility,” said Aunt Ada coldly. “These immigrants have far too many children. Your father cannot be expected to concern himself.”

  Devonny suddenly realized that she hated Aunt Ada. And she was not going to call her “Aunt” anymore. And if Father chose not to be charitable, that didn’t mean Devonny had to make the same choice. Well, actually it did, because Devonny could do nothing without her father’s permission, but she pretended otherwise. “It is my responsibility, then,” said Devonny sharply, “and I shall execute it.”

  Harriett smiled.

  Ada’s wrinkle-wrapped eyes vanished in a long blink.

  The word execute shivered in Devonny’s mind like the silver tray. If Matthew had slipped, would he have fallen in that direction? Could the tray have ended up where it did? How did he so totally crush his skull? He had not fallen down the entire flight of stairs. He had evidently been on the top step and simply gone backward. And there was blood on a tread above him—as if his head had been shoved into the upper stair and he had fallen afterward.

  Had he been murdered?

  Devonny did not repeat this idea to Harriett, who would only scold her once more about the novels she read. (Harriett read theology and philosophy; Harriett was brilliant; it was a shame she was not a boy, for brains were useless in a lady.)

  Devonny certainly could not mention her suspicion to Second Cousin of Somebody Else Ada.

  Father?

  Father, unfortunately, was the kind of man who believed women had the vapors. Of course, he kept marrying that kind of woman, so he had proof. He would simply tell Devonny to lie down until the sensation passed. He would tell her not to worry her sweet head about such things. He would not be interested in how Matthew died, he would be concerned only that the party and the running of his household not be adversely affected.

  She would have to talk to Strat.

  Which led Devonny again to the girl on the sand. Devonny knew every houseguest. The girl was not one. So who was she? And where was Strat? And when had Matthew died?

  Had the girl on the sand been there?

  Had she done it?

  Jeb’s father did not bother with discussions. Jeb’s father was a man of few words, and he had said them once: “Do not step out with the Irish Catholic again.” Jeb had not listened. Therefore his father moved from talk to flogging. Jeb hung onto the fence post and set his teeth tightly to keep the pain inside while his father’s leather belt dug into his bare back.

  Jeb loved Bridget. She was sweet and hardworking and her funny Irish accent sang to him, comforting and bawdy both. He yearned for her.

  But she was Catholic. It was a sin against God for her even to think of becoming Protestant. He would have to become Catholic. “Why can’t we be nothing?” Jeb had said. Bridget thought less of him after that.

  His father stopped. He didn’t even wipe the blood off his belt, just slid it into the pant loops. “Well?”

  “I won’t see her again,” said Jeb.

  His father knocked Jeb’s jaw upward with a gnarled fist to see in his son’s eyes whether Jeb was lying. But even Jeb did not know whether he was lying.

  She was tired of him calling her Miss Lockwood. Strat, however, could not manage anything as familiar as Annie. So he called her Anna Sophia. “Anna Sophia,” he sang, opera style, “Sophia Anna.” His deep bass voice rang out over the road.

  Her hair was making him crazy. When they paused at the corner of Beach and Elm, he could not resist her hair. He picked it up, making a silken horsetail between his hands, which he twisted on top of her head the way fashion dictated this year. When he let go, the hair settled itself. There was not the slightest curl to the hair; it might have been ironed. He threaded his fingers through the hair like ribbons. He could not imagine ever touching Harriett’s hair like this.

  “Where do you live?” he said, because he had to say something, or he would go even farther beyond the rules of behavior.

  “Cherry Lane.”

  He loved her voice. Aunt Ada saw to it that Harriett’s voice was carefully modulated. Anna Sophia did not sound like a girl required to modulate anything.

  “I don’t suppose Cherry Lane is even here,” she went on. “It can’t be, because our houses were built in the fifties.”

  Strat was about to argue that plenty of houses had been built in the fifties, until he realized she meant the nineteen fifties, which didn’t exist.

  “The road isn’t even paved,” she cried. “Not even here in the village.”

  “Nothing in
the country is paved,” he said.

  “No sidewalks!”

  “This is hardly Manhattan.”

  “What kind of tree is this?”

  “It’s an elm,” he said, “and this is Elm Street.”

  “Oh, what a shame they all get Dutch elm disease and die,” said Miss Lockwood. “They really are beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Trees? She knew the future of trees? Strat believed neither in time travel nor ghosts, but Anna Sophia was making him think of witches. What power did she have, to know the death of things?

  What power did she have to make him shiver every time he looked at her, and never want to do another thing in his life except look at her?

  Forget Yale, forget parties, the Mansion, New York.

  Strat was out of breath with all the things he no longer cared about.

  “There is no Cherry Lane, I was right. But look, Strat. There are cherry trees! It’s an orchard. I never knew that. I thought it was just a pretty name, maybe out of Mary Poppins. Our house would be right about there, Strat, where the fence ends.”

  “Miss Lockwood, you’re making me so uncomfortable. I feel as if you really might have come from some other time. Don’t talk of death and change.”

  Don’t talk of death and change. Anna Sophia turned back into Annie, whose parents most certainly did not want to talk of death and change. Although in their case, it would be divorce and change. She knew suddenly that Mom knew all about Miss Bartten. Mom knew and had chosen to pretend she didn’t, praying praying praying it would go away and they would never have to talk of change or enter a courtroom to accomplish it.

  Above them the elms created a beautiful canopy of symmetry and green. Strat eyed them anxiously, after what she had said.