Chapter 2
July 6th, 1881
North York Moors, England
Two weeks after her incident, Eva lay in bed with the faint sunlight blanketing a warmth over her toes. She wiggled them once. Then, she wiggled them quickly, summoning the courage to move her feet.
A sharp pain blasted in and around her ankle bones.
She winced. The frequent thought that battered within her skull returned. I will forever be trapped here.
There was a knock on the door.
Her eyes flicked to the window, but a bushy wall of green obstructed her view of the person knocking. She wasn’t in the mood to do anything other than lie in bed and wallow in her uselessness. Maybe if she pretended to be asleep, she could avoid social interaction until noon.
The knock came again.
She sharply exhaled. “Who is it?”
“Abe, miss,” a gruff voice said. “I’ve come to take you to the house for breakfast. Are you decent?”
Abraham Randall was the only biological child of Phoebe and Rich. At seventeen, he was a shy teenager who mostly kept to himself. Throughout the day, he helped around the farm, caring for the pigs and ducks, or managing the vegetable garden. Some days he even worked alongside his dad in the village, helping the sick. So far, Eva’s conversation with him revolved around good morning and let me carry you to the house or back to your bed. To her embarrassment, he was the only one strong enough to transport her around during the day.
“It’s fine. I’m not hungry,” Eva lied.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“But Ma’s made sausage gravy and biscuits.”
Eva furrowed her brow. She didn’t know what that was, but it sounded good. Looks like you have no choice but to socialize. Besides, she couldn’t always ignore Phoebe’s cooking on the pretext of being ill. That would be rude. She had to at least make an effort with the family, especially since she didn’t know how long she would be staying. With a heavy sigh, she sat up and looked at the washbowl next to her bed.
Even washing seemed like an enormous task.
“Can you come back in five minutes, please? I need to get ready,” Eva said.
“Five minutes it is,” Abe said.
The washing went quickly. She started with her face, where she carefully avoided the healing scabs along her right cheek. Then, she washed the exposed parts of her body. The water was cold and refreshing. With every scrub of the cloth, she imagined washing away an ugly, dirty layer. There were days when she would scrub at one patch until the skin became red and splotchy with blood spots. She didn’t know why she did that, but it seemed to soothe something inside her.
It had been a tiring few weeks. Trapped by her useless ankles and with nothing but her anxious mind, she was forced to accept the grim reality of what had happened. Muddied memories of Henry’s engagement, of her kidnapping and near-death experience, bombarded her daily. Some faraway part of her mind understood she had amassed a lot more than physical wounds, that damage had also been inflicted on her mental state. She had yet to understand how much it had changed her because her kidnapping had been so brutal, it had altered her memory of that day. She could barely remember past the point of being taken from the Grosvenor Hotel.
She knew her kidnapping had been a hit job orchestrated by Fanny Davenport and Henry Asheford. That was what her kidnappers had said. Instinct told her it was a lie. Then again, the lie had been so real. She had been kidnapped, she was beaten and taken up north … all signs pointed to that lie holding a grain of truth. But to think that Henry was involved? Above all, this was what hurt and confused her the most.
Still, deep within her gut, she could feel the change.It squirmed like a tapeworm, sucking her life force, churning her anger into a stagnant pool of exhaustion and harassing her with nightmares. The wounds on her arms and hands indicated she had fought back. She had a brief memory of being in a carriage, feeling woozy and afraid. Had she been drugged? Yes, she thought so. Had she been sexually assaulted? If she had, she could not remember. Was her brain protecting her from the harsh truth? She couldn’t say because everything about June seventeenth was a twisted mess of confusion in her head. All she knew was, on that night, she should have died.
Days ago, when she woke up from her week-long fever dream and had learned the severity of her injuries, she was determined to get revenge. It was a ridiculous thought. There wasn’t any possibility of ever getting revenge, and even if there were, she was not the strong woman she once was. She was a tired, weeping baby. Hell, she was starting to consider giving into her fate of living as a cripple on this moorland farm.
She winced at a sharp twinge above her left knee.
Not again. She had scrubbed until the cloth felt like sandpaper against her skin. Frustrated, she tossed it into the washbowl.
A knock came.
“Are you ready?” Abe said.
“Yes,” she replied, pulling the hem of her skirt down to her feet.
The door opened with a creak and Abe ambled in.
Tall and wide-shouldered, Abe’s lanky frame was drowning in a dirt-stained shirt a few sizes too big. His light-brown pants had a hole across his right knee, and his leather boots were caked in mud.
“It’s a nice day, miss,” he said, his full lips raised at the edges. “If you’re up to it, I can bring you to a shady spot near the vegetable garden for the day. You can read a book … or something.”
“Read a book?”
He settled on his knees before her bed, and she instinctively hobbled onto his back. His soft black hair, trimmed into an afro-like style, tickled her cheek.
“Or maybe you can embroider something. I’m sure Ma would like a pillow decorated,” he said as he lifted her. “She’s been talking about adding sunflowers to a quilt.”
Eva frowned. She didn’t know how to do embroidery or any other ladylike chore. That was another reason why she wanted to stay hidden in her converted bedroom of a shed – she had yet to decide what act to put on with the Randall family. Should she pretend to be Jane Edwards or stay true to herself as Evaline Quinn? Whoever she portrayed herself as, she would need a greater distraction than reading or crafting. She needed to fix things.
“I’d much rather help you with the handiwork around the farm,” she said.
“The handiwork?”
As they stepped outside, the bright sun warmed her cool skin. They passed the pigpen. A succession of grunts and squeals accompanied the pigs as they followed Abe along the length of the wooden fence. Their snouts dug between the rotted logs of the fencing.
“I see your fence posts need replacing,” Eva said. “Sit me on the edge and I can hammer some down.”
Abe chortled. “Ma wouldn’t allow that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are a guest.”
“So?” Eva said with a rising need to defend herself. “I want to be useful. All this caring for me like a baby is embarrassing. I don’t want to be served on. I want to help.”
Abe walked up the three steps to the back porch. In the reflection of the window in the paint-chipped brown door, Eva caught a glimpse of herself on Abe’s back.
She hated that he had to carry her. She wished they had a wheelchair, or at the very least, a pair of crutches, but the Randall family were barely scraping by as it was. There was no way she would allow them to buy anything for her.
“Please, let me help you,” she said. “Give me something to do.”
“You really want to do the dirty work?”
“I’d love nothing more.”
“Okay, but speak with Ma and Pa about it,” he said. “If they agree the work doesn’t interfere with your healing, I’ll have no problem with having a helping hand on the farm.”
“I’ll talk to them,” she said with a fleeting smile.
With a rusty squeak of the hinges, Abe opened the porch door to the kitchen. A scented wall of delicious cooking smacked Eva in the face, making her stomach rumble.
The kitchen was a small space with a corridor leading to the living room and bedrooms. The only source of light came from the back door and the hanging gas lamp above the dining table. The walls were painted white and the ceiling had rows of pale wooden beams. To the left was the cooking range with a sink, countertops and wooden shelves filled with dried herbs, pottery and cooking utensils. To the right, a rectangular wooden table was surrounded by a set of crooked, mismatched wooden chairs and one long bench.
On the table were five dishes, all with a steaming serving of sausage gravy and biscuits. Around the table sat Phoebe, Ceci and Lewis, waiting patiently to eat.
Eva’s stomach clenched at the thought they had been waiting for her.
“Good morning,” Phoebe said.
“Good morning, Eva,” Ceci and Lewis chanted as if they were greeting a school teacher.
“Morning,” Eva said as Abe helped her into a chair. “This looks and smells delicious.”
“Thought I’d make a special dish from where I’m from,” Phoebe smiled. “I’ve been teaching the children geography, you see.”
“Have you?” Eva looked at the children. “And can you tell me where Phoebe is from?”
“Missipi,” Ceci said at once.
“It’s M-M-Mississip-ppi,” Lewis said breathlessly. “Sunflower, Mississippi.”
Phoebe clapped her hands. “That’s right. Well done, Lewis. And where are you from?”
“London,” Lewis said.
“And where are you living now?” Phoebe said. “Ceci, this question is for you.”
“Castleton, North York Moors.” Ceci poked her finger into the gravy on her plate. “Can we eat, please?”
“Patience, children. We must first pray,” Phoebe said.
Ceci and Lewis slumped in their chairs with a scowl.
Eva assumed the children were not yet accustomed to Phoebe’s rules. Days ago, on a quiet evening on the back porch, Phoebe explained they had met the children three months back during a visit to her sister-in-law’s home in London. Needing to mend Rich’s leather boots, Phoebe and Rich had encountered the children in a cobbler’s. Seven-year-old Lewis was arguing with the shop owner for his right to buy shoes, while the crabby shop owner accused Lewis of having stolen money. The sight had angered Phoebe so much, she had marched up to the shop owner, called him a despicable man and offered to buy the children shoes at another shop. What began as an innocent purchase of children’s shoes turned into the discovery that the orphaned children were living in impoverished squalor near the Thames harbour quarter. Within days, Ceci and Lewis had a new home at the Randall’s Farm.
“Where does Eva come from?” Ceci asked.
A nervous ball formed in Eva’s throat.
“Let us not concern ourselves with that,” Phoebe quickly said. “Abe, son, will you lead the morning prayer, please?”
Out of respect, Eva mimicked the family by dropping her head and clasping her hands together. Once the prayer was concluded, they dug into their plates of sausage gravy and biscuits. The rich taste of this homecooked meal lifted Eva’s spirits. While she still felt miserable, there was a brief cheerful glimmer at having forced herself out of bed for the most delicious meal she’d eaten in a long while.
Hours later, when the moon was high on the horizon and the children were fast asleep, Eva sat with Phoebe on the back porch. The gentle creaking of their rocking chairs against the wooden boards added to the tranquility around. Between them, a gas lamp gave sufficient light to read and embroider.
Eva shut her book and settled it onto her lap. She had just finished reading a boring book about a wheelwright’s craft. It wasn’t exactly an exciting read, but she figured it would pay to learn some type of skill. Otherwise, she had nothing to offer this century apart from herself as a potential wife and vessel for children. To hell with that. She’d sooner end her days as a hermit, living in a cave and thieving potatoes at night. With an exhale, she looked at her companion.
In Phoebe’s lap was a white cloth bound by a wooden ring and in the centre, a half-finished sunflower. Needle between her fingers, she poked at the material from beneath and brought a yellow thread through. In and out, she continued to weave the thread until the petal of a sunflower formed.
As Eva watched her work, two questions racked her mind. She had tried to ask them all day but couldn’t summon the courage. The first was a simple proposition. Could she take on a more active role around the farm? She was certain Phoebe wouldn’t mind the idea, especially if Eva explained how important it was to keep herself busy with hard work.
The second question was a personal one. Who was Phoebe Randall? The brief conversation they had had that morning at breakfast had intrigued Eva. Phoebe had shared that she was from Mississippi. Having never travelled to the southern United States, Eva wanted to know more. Why had Phoebe left? How did she meet Rich? Did she leave family behind?
Phoebe started to sing.
Eva rested her head against the chair. Phoebe often sang when doing mundane tasks around the household, and Eva loved it tremendously.
“You sing that song often,” Eva said once the song ended. “It’s lovely.”
“It’s a well-known spiritual song where I’m from.”
“Spiritual?”
Phoebe looked at Eva with an unreadable expression. “Religious songs sung by my enslaved people in the southern United States.”
There was a painful swell in Eva’s throat. Enslaved?
“Oh, child,” Phoebe let out an exasperated sigh. “I can see your face growin’ paler by the second. Before you bother yourself with asking, yes, I was once enslaved on a plantation, picking cotton in Sunflower, Mississippi.”
The heavy pause was filled with summer insects and the distant squawk of ducks. The charming sounds were so contradictory to the darkness of Phoebe’s words.
Eva’s face flushed. She could feel the sweat start to pool at the small of her back, making the cotton skirt stick to her. “I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. “I shouldn’t have prodded about your heritage.”
“Prodded? You hardly asked a thing.”
“Still, I should have—”
I should have put two and two together that, in 1881, a middle-aged black woman would not have lived an idyllic life in Mississippi. Stupid, stupid, stupid…
Phoebe set aside her work onto the table. “I don’t want you apologizin’ to me,” she said firmly. “I don’t want you feelin’ pity for my past.”
Eva opened her mouth but was at a loss for words. Not only because she genuinely felt sorry for Phoebe but also because she was speaking with a woman directly affected by the slave trade. What could you say to a person who was once enslaved? Sure, she had read the first-hand accounts of victims living in this century; she had seen films depicting the horrors and learned about the subject in school. But that was history. It was supposed to be a faraway thing, yet here was Phoebe Randall, an inspiring pillar of strength who was once enslaved.
And she waits on you hand and foot.
Guilt washed over Eva. Her need to help around the farm took on a new sense of urgency.
“I don’t want to offend you by bringing up something you’d rather not speak about,” Eva said.
“Talkin’ is always better than holdin’ it in. And I’m not ashamed by any of it. If someone asks, I answer truthfully.”
“But it must be painful.” Eva’s voice fell at the last word.
“It is, but there ain’t no point feelin’ bad about it,” Phoebe said. “While I’ve faced injustices and I will never understand the hatred, I can control how I manage my life. At the end of the day, God gave me this skin colour and there ain’t nothin’ I can do apart from push forward with my head held high.”
“You must hold resentment for the people who did this to you,” Eva said.
“They have God to answer to. If I held a grudge against every white person I came across, I’d be a sorry old maid, and that wasn’t the life I wanted.”
Eva nodded. “So, you let go of the pain.”
“I embraced it, child. It’s part of who I am and always will be. The most important thing is to not let it control me. If I did, I would have never married a white Englishman, birthed a beautiful mixed-race baby or adopted white children. If I hadn’t accepted Rich into my life that day on the plantation because of a hatred for white folk, I would have never known this paradise.”
They looked out at the garden.
The large moon glanced off the dewy leaves and the small duck pond. In the furthest corner of the vegetable garden was Eva’s room, a converted garden shed. Overwhelmed by rose vines, a bed of tangled green and light pink covered the white wooden panelling. Behind the farmyard and beyond the crooked fencing, hills of midnight blue sat beneath the clear night sky. A lone sanctuary in the wildland of northern England, paradise was not a strong enough word to describe the Randall farm.
“You met Rich at the plantation?” Eva said after a few moments of silence.
“He was a newly graduated doctor roaming around the United States tending to the poor. One day, he just appeared at my plantation. By then, it was near the end of the Civil War—”
Eva made a choked sound.
Civil War.
The inferno in her face grew. It was like she was getting repeatedly punched across her cheek by the cruel iron fist of history. She must have looked rattled because Phoebe took her hand.
“Have you lost folk in the war too?” Phoebe said.
“What?”
“I assumed you were from the States, given your accent.”
“Canada,” Eva said. “I’m from the east coast of Canada.”
Phoebe observed Eva with careful brown eyes. There was a faint line between her brows. Her mouth parted, but she only smiled, patted Eva’s hand and eased back into her chair.
“You’re a long way from home,” Phoebe said.
“A little too far,” Eva muttered. “Still, I can’t believe you lived through all—” Eva looked at Phoebe. “How did you do it? How did you find the strength to move on?”
“The trick is to not let the hatred consume you, or it will poison your soul. Do you understand?”
The hard ball in Eva’s throat prevented her from speaking. She could barely manage a soft I do without her voice cracking.
“And to do that, you must forgive those that did you wrong. Above all, you must forgive yourself and trust that all will turn out well,” Phoebe continued. “Music helps too. You like music, don’t you?”
Eva’s vision blurred as she nodded.
Music, a saving grace against loneliness, had become a reminder of the life she’d lost. If one wisp of a song from her former life entered her head, a tide of resentment overwhelmed her. Most of all, it made her think of Henry. It conjured up images of his smiling face as he listened to the oldies on her phone at Bondieux House or of the moments when she sung him to sleep while she curled a lock of his dark hair around her finger. She forced those thoughts from her mind.
“I used to sing and play the piano,” Eva said.
“And you will play again.”
Eva glared at her injured hand. In a week, Rich would remove the stitches, but she was not convinced her hand had healed properly. Not only had her joy of music been taken, but so had her ability to play.
“My ring finger is stiff,” Eva said.
“Believe me when I say you will once again play music.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I did,” Phoebe insisted.
Despite the warm night, a chill swept down Eva’s neck.
“You do not need to be strong every minute of the day,” Phoebe said, picking up her sunflower embroidery.
“But I do,” Eva said. “I don’t want to burden you any more than necessary.”
“Hush with that nonsense. God led you to our little farm and I ain’t about to ignore his divine plan.”
“Divine plan?”
“That maybe you needed a place to heal alongside a family that knows it’s sometimes better to sing than speak.”
Eva’s head slumped between her shoulders. She did not want to hear about God’s so-called divine plan. There was no plan. There never was. It was always her against the universe. She had to find a way to be strong again without anyone’s help.
“I will find a way to repay you,” Eva said.
“Your only job is to heal.”
“Please, Phoebe. At least let me help around the farm. I need to be useful. I want to somehow support you all. It’s in my nature to fix things. Please.”
“You like to fix things?”
“Give me a hammer and a set of nails, and I’ll fix that fence for you,” Eva said, pointing to the pig’s enclosure. “I’m not a woman who can sit around reading. I like getting my hands dirty. It’s what I’m good at.”
“All right,” Phoebe said with a sigh. “I suppose that explains why you’d rather read a book about wheelwrights than one of romance, but I’ll only allow it after you get those stitches removed, and you must promise me you won’t strain yourself. If you want to get better, you need to take it slow.”
Eva held her gaze. “I promise. Again, thank you for everything.”
Phoebe smiled and resumed her embroidery, singing as she did.
As Eva focused on the soothing sound, she fixed her gaze on the dust motes swirling in the gas lamp’s orange light.
The dust twisted and turned, reminding her of the shimmering light from the time-travelling device. For the first time in weeks, she wondered what had become of it. The last time she had held it was at Elias’s house. She had hidden the device at the bottom of her trunk and put the trunk key around her neck before pathetically running off to save Henry. She didn’t have a clue what had happened to that key. There was no use in wondering about that these days. Her fate had been determined. She was to stay in 1881.
Her conversation with Phoebe weighed heavily on her mind.
You will once again play music.
She studied her right palm and attempted to move her index finger. The stiffness did not permit more than a few centimetres of movement. For this entire month, she had ignored her injuries because it gave her the feeling that things were somewhat okay. What a joke. Deep down, she knew ignoring it only dragged out the inevitable. The grieving would eventually come, forcing her to accept her independence had been stolen yet again.
She clenched her right hand and her knuckles turned a ghostly white. Phoebe’s words were encouraging, but they were only words. She was already wholeheartedly convinced she would never sing again.