Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
Idon’t know how long I sat there in the grass.
Long enough for the sun to shift, for the shadows to lengthen and my breathing to slow from panicked gasps to something almost normal. Long enough to cycle through every rational explanation my brain could come up with.
The margarita. That had to be it. Too much tequila on an empty stomach in the tropical heat. I was hallucinating. Any second now, I’d blink and find myself back on the tour with Jenna making fun of me for passing out.
Except the grass beneath my palms felt completely solid. Coarse and sun-warmed, the individual blades pressing into my skin. The rough linen scratched against my shoulders with each breath. Flies buzzed past my ear with a distinctive high-pitched whine that made me want to swat at them.
Hallucinations weren’t this detailed, were they?
Okay. Different theory. I’d fallen. Hit my head when I touched that stone. This was a concussion dream. The kind where everything seemed authentic but slightly wrong, where your subconscious took familiar things and twisted them.
I reached up, feeling my scalp for bumps or tender spots. Nothing. My head felt fine. No pain, no dizziness beyond the general sense that gravity had shifted beneath me.
In the distance, a rooster crowed even though it had to be mid-afternoon. The sounds from the fields continued—men shouting, the rhythmic thwack of machetes cutting cane, someone singing a work song with a melody that made my chest ache even though I’d never heard it before.
I looked at the house.
It was Rose Hall. The same structure, same bones, same placement on the hill.
But the paint was fresh, sparkling white, without any of the weathering I’d seen on the tour.
The gardens were similar—neat rows of vegetables and ornamental flowers though there was more of everything.
And the windows had that old wavy glass that caught the light wrong, the kind you only saw in actual historical buildings.
An elaborate prank?
My mind grasped at the possibility. What if this were some kind of immersive historical experience? One of those living history things where actors stayed in character and they recreated everything down to the last detail?
But that didn’t make sense either. I hadn’t signed up for anything like that. And where were the other tourists? The modern buildings that would have to be nearby? The parking lot? Cars? Someone’s obnoxious cellphone ringing?
I stood on shaking legs and turned in a slow circle.
Sugarcane and indigo fields stretched in every direction.
Actual fields, not decorative plantings.
The sugarcane stalks were twelve feet tall, dense and green, with workers moving between the rows.
In the distance, I could see what looked like rough shelters—housing, maybe—and smoke rising from cooking fires.
No resort. No tour buses. No modern anything.
My heart started hammering again.
Think. There has to be a logical explanation.
Maybe I’d wandered onto private property. Some eccentric millionaire’s estate where they maintained period-accurate buildings and employed people to work the land the old way. Stranger things existed. I’d read about that guy in England who made his servants dress in Victorian clothing.
Except none of those people looked surprised to see me. No one had come running to tell me I was trespassing. The fields stretched unbroken to the horizon with no sign of the Jamaica I knew—no power lines, no cell towers, no roads that weren’t dirt paths.
The old woman’s words echoed in my memory. Doors open both ways.
No. Absolutely not. That wasn’t possible.
Time travel didn’t exist. It was science fiction. Fantasy. The kind of thing that happened in books and movies, not to history majors working at a travel company, and eating birthday cake in the Caribbean.
But I was sitting in the grass, wearing a dress from a costume room, looking at a version of Rose Hall that shouldn’t exist.
I pressed my hands flat against the ground, trying to anchor myself to something solid. The earth was warm. The sun was bright. The sounds and smells were vivid and sharp.
What would Dad do?
He’d observe. Document. Look for evidence before jumping to conclusions.
Right. Evidence. I could work with evidence.
I examined the house more carefully. The architecture was right for the early colonial period—simple compared to the grand plantation houses that came later.
No Victorian additions, no modern conveniences visible.
The outbuildings looked functional rather than decorative, arranged for actual work rather than tourist appeal.
The people in the fields wore simple clothing. Not costumes—clothes that showed actual wear, actual stains, the kind of garments that came from hard use rather than a wardrobe department.
And there was another detail. The air itself smelled different. Smoke, yes, and molasses. But underneath that was an absence—no car exhaust, no plastic, no chemical cleaners.
Just earth and sweat and cooking fires and growing things.
“Saints preserve us!”
The voice made me jump. I jerked my head up to see a woman hurrying toward me across the lawn, her face flushed with more than just exertion.
Relief and worry warred in her expression.
She wore a dress that looked like it came from the same period as mine, but better made—dyed a serviceable brown, with a cream-colored linen apron that had seen considerable use.
Her hair was covered by a turban, and her accent was thick, maybe Irish.
“Praise God ye’re alive!” she said, pressing one hand to her chest as she reached me.
“When the wreckage started washing ashore this morning and no one could find ye—we thought ye drowned with the others. The mistress has been beside herself, and I’ve had search parties combing the beach since dawn.”
I stared at her, trying to make sense of words that seemed to come from another century.
Wreckage. Drowned. Search parties.
She thought I’d been in a shipwreck.
“I—” My voice came out as a croak. I swallowed and tried again. “I don’t remember.”
“Shock, poor lamb. It’s a mercy ye made it to shore at all and then made your way here.”
She crouched beside me, her work-roughened hands surprisingly gentle as she examined my face, my arms, checking for injuries. “Are ye hurt? Can ye stand?”
“I think so.”
“Come on then. Let’s get ye inside before ye collapse out here where anyone might see.” She hooked an arm under mine, helping me to my feet.
“The mistress will want to know ye’re safe. We’ve been searching since the wreckage came in with the morning tide—planks and trunks and God knows what else scattered along the beach. We feared ye were lost along with the others.”
My legs were unsteady beneath me. She kept one hand on my elbow, supporting more of my weight than I wanted to admit.
“What’s your name?” I managed.
“Mrs. Browne. Head housekeeper here at the Delacroix house.” She studied my face with concern.
“Do ye not remember? Ye’re Millicent Carter, the new governess. Come all the way from Philadelphia to teach the mistress’s son.”
Millicent. The name felt wrong in my mouth, like clothing that didn’t fit. But she was looking at me with such relief, such genuine worry, that I found myself nodding.
“Everyone calls me Maddie,” I said softly.
“Aye, as ye say.” Mrs. Browne’s expression softened slightly. “Well then, Maddie. Let’s get ye inside and tended to. Can ye walk?”
“Yes.” Maybe if I kept moving, kept doing what was expected, my brain would catch up with whatever was happening.
She guided me toward the house, her grip firm but kind. “The ship went down in last night’s storm. The captain tried to make for the harbor, but the rocks got her. Terrible business.” She patted my arm. “Dinna fash, lass, we’ll get ye sorted.”
She believed it completely. The shipwreck, the lost cargo, everything. And she’d built me a whole identity—Millicent Carter from Philadelphia, a governess hired to teach some boy I’d never met.
Either this was the most elaborate immersive theater experience in human history, or—
The path led through a kitchen garden—neat rows of herbs and vegetables—and around to a side entrance. Not the grand front doors I’d entered through on the tour, but a smaller door that opened into what had to be the working part of the house.
Inside was blessedly cooler. Stone floors, thick walls that held back the worst of the heat. The hallway was narrow and plain, nothing like the mahogany-paneled rooms I’d seen earlier.
And then we passed through the kitchen.
I stopped walking.
The scene before me drove every rational explanation out of my head.
The kitchen was massive, dominated by an open hearth the size of a small car.
An actual fire burned there, flames licking at iron pots that hung from hooks and chains.
People moved through the space—six, maybe seven—all wearing simple clothing, all working with an efficiency that spoke of years of practice.
A woman stirred a pot that sent up clouds of steam. A man chopped vegetables with a knife that looked hand-forged. Another woman pulled bread from a brick oven built into the wall, her face shining with sweat.
No electric lights. No refrigerator humming in the corner. No modern anything.
And their faces—
They weren’t acting. Weren’t performing for an audience. They moved like people who did this every single day, who knew exactly where everything was and how long each task took. The woman at the hearth had burn scars on her arms. The man chopping vegetables was missing his pinky finger.
Mrs. Browne tugged at my arm. “Come along now. The kitchen’s no place for the governess, especially not when ye’ve been through such an ordeal.”
But I stood rooted to the spot, staring.
Because there was one more detail. One more piece of evidence my brain registered even through the shock.