Twisted Time Read online

  She didn’t have to strain at the task. The candles in the windows, which she had earlier thought appeared real viewed through the whirling snow and the tear mist clouding her eyes, were real. There was no mistaking the distinctive scent of hot wax, or the liquefied stream of it flowing down the side of the tapers.

  From the candles, Faith’s sharpened gaze moved to the tabletop, which consisted of thick boards, worn smooth by years of use, and certainly not the reproduction of the deal table Faith had grown up using.

  From the table, she shifted her intent gaze to the ceiling. The heavy cross beams were still there, but the smooth white plaster Faith was accustomed to seeing was now a rough, smoke-stained, inexpertly applied mass with the appearance of stucco, dirty and uneven. The hanging wagon wheels of six lamps each were gone. In their stead were three individual candle lamps, with real candles inside, hanging by thick ropes from the beams.

  Her breaths corning in shallow puffs, Faith dropped her gaze from the ceiling to the walls, as a lump rose from her chest to her throat.

  The walls were also no longer smooth white plaster, but were constructed of sturdy round logs, chinked with a substance that looked like the chunky stucco on the ceiling. And there were no portraits hanging above the mantelpiece.

  The huge fireplace was the same—or almost so. The difference lay in the andirons, and the large iron cooking pot and assorted period utensils. Steam curled up from the pot—it was actually being used! Faith wrinkled her nose at the aroma of bubbling rabbit stew. She loathed rabbit stew.

  “Here you are, dear.” The woman appeared at Faith’s elbow, nearly startling her out of her already jangled wits. “I have a nice big bowl of hot rabbit stew, bread fresh from the oven, and a mug of warm buttermilk. That should set you to rights.”

  Faith suppressed a gagging groan as she stared down at the food the woman had set before her. She loathed warm buttermilk even more than rabbit stew.

  “Thank you but, I... I’m really not very hungry,” she said in a choked murmur, leaning back to distance her nose from the awful smell of the stew.

  “But you must eat, my dear!” the gentle woman exclaimed, bending down to peer into Faith’s face. “You are quite pale, and have a decided peaked look.”

  Peaked? Faith swallowed a bubble of hysterical laughter. Who in the world said peaked anymore? Well, obviously this odd woman did, she chided herself, feeling reality retreat as unreality advanced.

  “Uh.., perhaps just some bread, then,” Faith said, breaking a corner from the warm, thick chunk. And some coffee, with a big dash of Black Label, she mentally pleaded, in mute despair.

  “Oh, but a bit of bread would ...”

  The woman’s objection was drowned by the sound of raised voices coming from the barroom adjacent to the dining room.

  “Now, what in heaven’s name is all the commotion about?” the woman muttered, turning to frown in the direction of the barroom.

  “I tell you he was defeated at the Brandywine Creek,” an irate male voice shouted. “Word is that he’s not gonna even try to save Philadelphia.”

  Brandywine? Save Philadelphia? From what? Faith wondered, her attention captured by the loud voice. He? He who?

  “And I tell you I do not believe it!” another loud male voice retorted. “The report was that General Washington had amassed about eleven thousand good men.”

  “Ill-equipped men!” the first man shouted. “Howe split his forces, and with the Hessian von Knyphausen attackin’ from the front, the British circled around to hit General Sullivan’s boys from the rear. The battle was lost. There were some nine hundred wounded and killed. Even Lafayette was wounded.”

  Howe? Von Knyphausen? General Sullivan? Faith’s senses reeled. Lafayette! What in hell were these men talking about? Were they drunk or merely raving lunatics? And what in hell did they think they were doing, creating a ruckus in her inn? Her closed inn!

  “Who are those men?” Faith demanded, starting for the barroom with the intention of ejecting the intruders.

  “Oh ... Oh, dear!” the nice, if demented, woman objected, clutching Faith’s arm. “You cannot go in there!”

  “And why not?” Faith asked archly, attempting, and failing, to pull her arm free.

  “It is unseemly for a lady to enter the barroom,” the woman replied, in a tone indicating the answer should have been obvious.

  “Unseemly?” Faith repeated the out-of-date— long out-of-date—term. “But I own the—”

  The first man’s voice broke through Faith’s protest. “Rumors are rife that Howe then had his forces foragin’ and burnin’ the whole of the Schuylkill River valley, while Washington positioned his troops on the steep ridges at Valley Hill, down near White Horse.”

  The Schuylkill River valley. Valley Hill. White Horse. The place names were more than familiar; Faith had lived west of the area all her life. But the man’s information was out of context, way out of context—unless. Faith mused, smiling slightly, unless she had been time-warped, “Star Trek” fashion, back to the past, her country’s past.

  Faith rejected the imaginative but unrealistic possibility out of hand—for even to consider it meant that she, and not these other strange folk, was out of her head.

  “Well, will you leave off guzzlin’ that there ale and continue?” yet another male voice piped in, drawing Faith’s unwilling if fascinated attention.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not so sure you want to hear the rest,” the first man grumbled. “Hear tell ‘twas a mess there at Valley Hill. Had a cloudburst and got thick with mist. Some are already callin’ it The Battle of the Clouds.”

  “But what happened?” the new voice demanded.

  “Well, seems like Washington retreated from the hills, too, even though they say ole Mad Anthony begged his commander to allow him to loose his Pennsylvanians on the British.”

  The Battle of the Clouds? Mad Anthony... Wayne? Faith was beginning to feel a crawly sensation when suddenly she was struck by a new, more palatable consideration. Were these men historians, reenacting the events leading up to the terrible winter George Washington and his army endured at Valley Forge?

  Faith slanted a quick glance to the woman beside her, standing stiffly alert to the men’s conversation.

  Of course! Faith expelled a long sigh of relief. That had to be the answer. It was in December that Washington had moved his army into winter quarters at Valley Forge, and Valley Forge was located a short half hour or so drive east from The Laughing Fox, depending on how heavy a foot was on the gas pedal.

  That was it! Faith was forced to contain a burst of self-directed laughter. What a nit she was, getting all bent out of shape because some half-baked historians were reenacting the past. Everyone in the vicinity knew that The Laughing Fox would be closing permanently after serving dinner on Christmas Eve. These people must have seized on the idea of using the inn to play out their recreation of the events prior to Washington’s removal of his troops to Valley Forge.

  But, historians or not, costumed or not, these people were trespassing on private property, on her private property. Faith’s sense of relief changed to one of annoyance. Had they been thoughtful enough, polite enough to ask, she’d have been delighted to give her permission for the play. She would even have joined them. Faith enjoyed that kind of play, never missing a costumed reenactment put on at Independence Hall in Philadelphia. All the same, they should have asked for her permission.

  Caught up in the conflicting emotions of relief and anger, Faith conveniently forgot for the moment the changes in the interior of the inn, not to mention the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of some twelve or so inches of snow. She turned to the woman to administer a stern lecture on the penalties imposed on persons apprehended in the act of breaking and entering when once again, she was sidetracked by the raised voices issuing from the barroom.

  “ ... and a passin’ scout told a neighbor, and he told me,” the first man was explaining. “Also said that there’s a story goin’ a
round that that French General du Coudray drowned ‘cause he insisted on stayin’ on his horse to board a flatboat to cross a river.”

  There was a loud snort of disbelief from one man, and an equally loud hoot of laughter from another. ‘Them Frenchies sure are somethin’.”

  “Yeah,” the first man agreed. “But I for one ain’t so much worried about them Frenchies as I am the story I heard about how Howe’s troops destroyed Colonel Dewees’s place yonder at Valley Forge.”

  “No!” an outraged voice exclaimed, “But Lord sakes, man, where’s Washington now?”

  There ensued an expectant hush. Faith imagined that however many men there were in the barroom were leaning forward to catch every word. Figuratively if not literally, she was leaning forward herself.

  The answer came sotto voce. “Hear tell Washington’s restin’ his troops at Camp Pottsgrove.”

  “He’s going to build up his forces with new units,” Faith called to the men, impulsively jumping into the play, uninvited. “Count Pulaski will be bringing in his regiment of four hundred cavalrymen,” she added with sudden recall of the chain of historical events.

  There ensued a brief, shocked silence. Then four men, wearing like expressions of astonishment, stormed into the dining room.

  “Who in tarnation is that?” demanded a tall, well-built man with a shock of auburn hair and a bartender’s apron swathed around his hips. “Emily, was that you who spoke?”

  Now rigid with shock, the woman standing beside Faith shook her head vigorously. “No, no, William. I said nothing. ‘Twas the young missy here.” She indicated Faith with a helpless hand. “The one I told you I found out in the stable yard, shivering and weeping.”

  “How came you with such information?” a short squat man quizzed Faith. “Speak up, girl!”

  Girl? Faith bristled. She didn’t appreciate the man’s sharp, interrogative tone. This clown in colonial clothing had a definite attitude problem. After all, this was her home! Who did these people think they were, quizzing her? Getting into the game was one thing, but sexist attacks were something else altogether. Drawing herself up to her full five-foot-seven inches, Faith leveled her strongest drop dead look at the banty rooster.

  “Excuse me, but are you addressing me?” she inquired in ice-coated tones.

  “Huh?” The man grunted, gawking at her.

  “I said …”

  “Never mind, missy,” the aproned man, apparently playing out the role of local innkeeper, interrupted with impatience. “Answer the question. How do you know these things?”

  “I know all, I see all,” Faith replied in a flip parody of the intriguing voice she’d heard at a Renaissance fair, adopted by an actress playing the role of a mysterious Romany fortune teller.

  As one, the men closed in on her. Faith stood her ground, watching them warily.

  “What else do you know... see?” the bartender asked in a whisper after a prolonged silence.

  “Is this a test?” Faith asked brightly, attempting to lighten the group’s sudden dark looks. “Okay.” She shrugged. “Washington will advance on Howe’s forces camped at Germantown in early October— and will be defeated,” she said, certain that had been his next move.

  “Saints preserve us!” Emily exclaimed, wringing

  “Be the girl a witch?” the short stocky man asked after a gulp, noticeably paling.

  “A witch, you say?” the man belonging to what Faith had been thinking of as the third voice squawked; taking a step back, while making the sign of the cross with his two forefingers.

  Oh, brother! Enough already, Faith decided, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

  “Watch out!” the fourth member of the group cried. “She’s going into a fit!”

  “Right!” Faith shouted, at the absolute end of her tether. “I will have a fit if you yo-yos don’t stop all this stupid playacting!”

  “Playactin’?” The group, along with Emily, spoke simultaneously, like a well-rehearsed Greek chorus.

  Faith was on the verge of tears of frustration; she opted for laughter instead. “You characters are really very good, close to Oscar quality,” she complimented them when her laughter had subsided to a soft chuckle. “The accents are first-rate and the costumes are great.” She indicated the garments with a flick of her wrist. “And the sets are. ..” Her voice faded.

  Sets? Scenery? Stage props? Good grief! Faith chided herself for her slow uptake of the situation. She must have been outside a lot longer than she thought unaware of the passage of time while lost in her misery.

  Of course, that still left the little matter of the sudden disappearance of the snow, but Faith didn’t have tune to delve into that. She was too preoccupied with inching back, away from the determined advance of her uninvited troop of amateur thespians.

  “Mrs. Shelby, what have you brought down upon us by bringing this young miss into the house?” the bartender demanded of Emily.

  Mrs. Shelby? Faith blinked.

  “I... I...” Emily stuttered, staring in horrified fascination at Faith. “I was only offering a Christian kindness to her, William,”

  William? Faith sliced a keen look at the apron-clad man.

  “Aye, Mr. Shelby,” the man who had made the sign of the cross whispered, raising his hands protectively before his face. “What devil’s spawn have y’ got under your roof?”

  His roof? Mr. Shelby? William! Faith stared at the man apparently portraying her umteenth-great-grandfather. She examined his build—and found it familiar. She studied his features—and noted the similarities to her own. She stared into his eyes— and felt she was staring into a mirror.

  Where was she?

  A silent scream reverberated inside Faith’s head. The answer that followed blew a fuse in her mind.

  Lost in time.

  No. No! she cried in silent disbelief. Weird and inexplicable things like time travel didn’t happen except in the creative minds of fiction writers, and the scrambled interiors of the pitifully demented.

  “Don’t let her escape!”

  The shout jarred Faith into an awareness that she was inching backward, toward the door. Escape? Escape to where? Where could she go?

  “I want to go home!” Faith cried aloud.

  “Where is your home, child?” Emily asked, not unkindly.

  Faith turned a stark look on her. “The twenty first century,” she said on a sob, “the fourteenth year of the twenty first century.”

  “I told you! I told you!” the stocky man shouted. “The girl be a witch!”

  “Leave off, Bridigan,” William snapped. “Can you not see the girl’s daft?”

  “Poor lost child,” Emily murmured, clicking her tongue as she reached for Faith’s hand.

  “I am not daft or demented,” Faith said between short gasps of breath. “I’m lost in time!” But even as she said it, she didn’t really believe it. There had to be another explanation.

  “A witch, I tell you!”

  “Kill her!” the cross-fingered man yelled, backing away. “Burn her!”

  “I think... not.”

  The voice was new, different from the others, cultured and refined. On a collective gasp, Faith’s tormentors whirled to confront the unexpected intruder. Faith was forced to crane her neck to peer around the solid frame of the man they called William Shelby to get a glimpse at her would-be rescuer.

  And he was a sight to behold.

  The man had struck a pose in the spacious opening between the barroom and the dining room. The pose bespoke breeding, station, elegance.

  His clothes were exquisitely tailored, and in the very latest fashion—for the last quarter of the eighteenth century. His neck cloth and shirt cuffs were ruffled. His dark brown, tailed coat fit smoothly over his broad shoulders. Gold buttons adorned the deep cuffs on the sleeves. His fawn-colored breeches clung to his slim waist, narrow hips, long flanks, and muscular thighs. Light hose defined the curve of his legs from below the knees to where they disappeared inside his buckled sh
oes. A dark, caped cloak was draped negligently over his shoulders, falling to within mere inches of the floor.

  Faith stared at the man in stunned awe. Not because of his sudden appearance. Not because of his clothing. Not even because he was the single most handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon. Simply because he was the living image of the man in the portrait in her own twentieth century inn!

  And the man was staring with cool intensity directly into Faith’s shock-widened eyes.

  Chapter 2

  “Tory.”

  Snarled like a curse, the muttered word dropped like a stone into the heavy silence of the common room.

  “Prescott Carstairs, sir,” Pres drawled, ignoring the muttered word, his cloak brushing the floor as he executed an insultingly brief bow to the assembled group. “Your most obedient servant.” As he straightened, he swept each male in turn with a stern look. “And there will be no burning or killing here this night.”

  In truth, they were a rather disreputable-looking bunch, Pres mused, tilting his head to thoroughly examine the varied and mildly amusing expressions on the faces of those gathered in a semicircle. Excepting the innkeeper and his lady wife, he allowed; they were a decent-looking pair. And, oh, yes, the young woman.

  The wench was beautiful.

  With the arrogance natural to one of his station, Pres ran a slow, comprehensive look over the woman, beginning with her glorious mass of tumbled auburn curls, to the delicate features of her flushed face, and down the length of her enticingly curved figure. Her breasts were neither large nor small, the perfect size to fit a man’s hand. Her waist was small, nipped-in, drawing the eye to her rounded hips and all the way down to her well-shaped ankles, peeking out from beneath the hem of her skirt.

  Brief as his glance at her ankles was, Pres was struck by a quality of strangeness. There was something not quite right about the unusual sheerness of girl’s hose. Odd, that. He felt an urge to touch, to examine—but of course he did not. He was fully aware that such a breach of propriety would likely earn him a smart rap from her for his trouble—and justly so.