Chapter 7
August 9th, 1881
The rain had eased by early afternoon. The sun bore down, overheating Eva’s skin and leaving a slick layer of sweat across her forehead. Despite the heat, she was determined to help Abe fix the pigs’ fencing.
She brought the mallet down hard onto the wooden fence post. With every swing of her right hand, she was acutely aware something was not right.
With a silent curse, she looked at her right palm.
The thick red scar went from the index finger to the fleshy part of her thumb. Sometimes when she held things, the skin would burn. What worried her most was how her fingers were still stiff, even after several weeks of healing.
“What’s wrong?” Abe said.
“Nothing,” she lied and squeezed her hand into a fist. The last thing she wanted was complain about her injuries.
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t think you’re sure.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “I was thinking about how I wish I could wear shorts.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Shorts?”
“Imagine trousers but cut here, above the knee,” she said, pointing to her pants. “On a warm day like today, you can feel the wind against your skin.”
The corners of his mouth tipped up. “But you’d be showing a lot more than an ankle. That would be scandalous, especially around these parts where the local folk don’t take kind to change.”
Eva shrugged. “So is a woman wearing trousers, but you don’t see me changing my ways.”
And that was the truth. She was done hiding who she was. Evaline Quinn was her name, and she refused to be burdened any longer by the restrictions imposed on a woman in this century. If she was going to be stuck in 1881, she would do it her way, fighting and cursing, while wearing pants with her head held high, as she should have done in the first place.
“I still don’t understand how Ma lets you wear trousers.”
“Why is it such a big deal, anyway?”
A sunbeam glinted in Abe’s chartreuse eyes. He straightened as he pushed off the wooden post with his forearm. “I suppose it isn’t,” he said. “But I ain’t never seen a woman wear trousers before. Do they wear them where you’re from?”
“Yes,” she said and slammed the mallet onto the wooden post. “All the time, and shorts too.”
“Now I know you’re lyin’.”
“Nuh-uh, ain’t lying,” she said, mimicking his half American, half English accent. “Were you born in England?”
“I was.”
“You don’t have much of an accent.”
“I don’t talk much with the locals.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged and placed the next wooden post into its hole. “I guess because the locals aren’t kind. When I was old enough for school, Ma and Pa sent me, but the kids were mean on account of my skin colour. They said I looked like the mud beneath their shoes, so Ma homeschooled me instead.”
Eva gaped. “What?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, there ain’t no black folk around these parts. Even if I’m mixed-race, I’m still too dark-skinned compared to the locals.” He hammered the wooden post. “For some, that makes me a monster.”
“That makes them the monsters, not you,” she said. “Racist assholes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
A dark emotion was brewing in her belly. Suddenly, she felt very protective over the Randall family. “You know what? If I were you, I would have stood my ground and told them off.”
He snorted. “And be lynched for defending myself? Nuh-uh, I don’t need that kind of trouble.”
She froze.
Lynched. What an ugly word; it held too much history to ignore or dismiss Abe’s comment as dark humour. While lynching was a thing of the past in the twenty-first century, it was not in 1881, and she supposed Abe had every right to be afraid of it. Especially since his mother was a former slave. God only knew the horror stories she had passed on.
“You’re right,” Eva said with an exhale. “You don’t need that trouble, nor do you deserve it for having a darker skin tone. Just know that they’re wrong for saying those things, and they will all be judged harshly for it.”
“By God?”
“And history.”
He was transfixed on the grain of the wooden post before him. “How can you be so sure?”
“Just trust me on that one, okay? History will not be kind to those who discriminate based on skin colour. You are as deserving of a good life as anyone else.”
Abe gave her an assessing look then sharply exhaled as he picked up a wooden post from the ground.
“What do you want to do with your life?” Eva said.
“I’d like to expand the farm,” he said, pushing the post into a hole. “Maybe get some cows and make cheese.”
“Cheese?”
“Years ago, a French woman came through the village and fell sick. While Pa cared for her, all she talked about was cheese. Brie, Camembert, Mimolette, Fourme d’Ambert.” He grinned. “She was delirious, imagining I was her cheesemaker, or as they say in French, fromager. I learned a lot about cheesemaking. She even gifted me her books and recipes before passing.”
“So, you want to be a fromager?” Eva said, smiling.
Abe met her gaze. There was a twinkle in his eye. “I do.”
“Abe, Eva!” Phoebe’s voice shouted behind them.
They turned. Phoebe was standing next to the house behind a strawberry bush. One hand on her hip, she waved them over. They dropped their mallets onto the grass and joined her.
“There’s a gentleman out front who requires help with his carriage. He and his companions think there’s something wrong with the axle. Could you lend them a hand, son?” Phoebe said.
“Ma, I don’t know the first thing about fixin’ wheels and axles,” Abe said.
“I can take a look,” Eva said.
Phoebe’s brows promptly pulled together. “Don’t bother yourself with that kind of work. It’s for the men.”
“Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe.” Eva tsked. “Haven’t I told you that what a man can do, so can a woman? And sometimes even better, I might add. Plus, I’ve been reading that book on wheelwright craftsmanship. I know a thing or two about fixing wheels and axles.”
“Where did you get that?” Abe said.
Eva shrugged. “Found it at the bottom of your bookshelf. You both know I like a good fixing challenge. It won’t hurt to look, and if the carriage is broken beyond my novice wheelwrighting skills, I can direct them to the village.”
“All right,” Phoebe said with a sigh. “Son, accompany Eva, please. I don’t like her going on her own to a band of men by the roadside.”
“Give me one second,” Eva said.
She turned and hurried to her shed. Before leaving to meet the mystery man outside, she wanted to look at herself in the hand-held mirror.
Wearing a dirt-stained shirt a few sizes too big, with a pair of brown pants and muddy boots, she looked like a typical farm girl. To add to the look, her light-brown hair was woven into a thick braid, and a smudge of dirt covered the sunburnt bridge of her freckled nose.
She fixed some loose strands of hair, wiped the dirt from her face and checked her teeth for remnants of her chicken lunch. Since it was the first time she would interact with anyone outside the Randall family, she wanted to be presentable. And not as Jane Edwards, but as Eva. Content with her reflection, she met Abe and the mystery man out front.
Approximately a head taller than Eva, the stranger had thick fiery red hair, a curled moustache, sunburnt skin and crystal blue eyes that peered from behind a pair of thick, round glasses. He smiled with an amused air, probably not expecting to see a woman wearing trousers appear to solve his problems.
“Ah, this is the wheelwright we’ve been waiting for? Hello, madam, my name is Arthur Stiles. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, holding out a hand.
She held still.
His clipped English accent. Those striking blue eyes. His brown pleated waistcoat over a crisp white dress shirt. It was all too close for comfort. Memories were threatening to break free. She forced herself to look into his eyes and take his hand; she couldn’t avoid every blue-eyed Englishman for the rest of her life.
“Mr. Bell, I am Miss Quinn, and the pleasure is all mine,” she said. “If you would lead the way, we can see to your problem.”
They crossed the front yard and wandered along the stretch of dirt road flanked by hilly fields. Abe walked next to Eva, his straw hat atop his head, and Arthur, leading the way, occasionally snuck a friendly smile at them.
“We have been on the road for several weeks,” Arthur said. “It’s the first time we’ve encountered problems with the carriages.”
“Carriages? There are more than one?” Eva said.
“We have three. Each worse maintained than the last. We are a band of scholars. You can probably guess that handiwork is not our strong suit,” Arthur said.
“Why are you travelling by carriage and not by train? It hardly seems ideal, given the state of these country roads,” Eva said, gesturing to a soccer-ball-sized pothole.
“Because we’re on a great research expedition that requires travelling these lesser-known paths,” Arthur said.
As they approached a rolling hill, a campsite became visible. Three black carriages sat in a semi-circle around a fire. Decorated with clothing hung to dry, various tools, a threadbare canopy and cooking equipment, the carriages looked more like gypsy caravans.
“What are you researching?” Abe asked.
“We are on the hunt for moths,” Arthur said.
“Why moths?” Abe said.
Arthur’s brilliant white smile widened. “Quite fascinating, really. We are studying the peppered moth across England to prove the theory of evolution. Did you know the moths have been shown to evolve black wings to accommodate the soot of the city to hide from predators?”
The theory of evolution…
When they were within a few meters of the camp, a blur of forest-green tartan emerged from behind one of the carriages. With a determined look, the man in the kilt walked toward the fire. In one hand, he held a fish. In the other, a knife.
Eva halted in her tracks.
It can’t be…
Elias McKenzie’s emerald eyes were on her at once. They widened with recognition. The fish and the knife fell to the grass.
Something sour unravelled in her stomach.
“Eva?” Elias said in his familiar Scottish drawl.
Panic gripped her. She spun around, and as quickly as her ruined ankles could go, she made a mad dash to the safety of the Randall farm.
Eva’s breaths were dusty puffs against the floorboards of her shed. Every knock against the door shot through her. Elias’s cries drew her further into a fetal position as she covered her ears.
“I ken it’s ye, Eva! I ken it,” Elias said.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Go away, Elias.
“Christ, we thought ye were gone, we thought…” His voice fell into a flurry of incohesive mumbles. “Will ye not open the door and speak with me, please? I beg ye, Eva, I beg ye.”
Her stomach flip-flopped and her tears were flowing hard, burning her eyes. Go away, please, go away, and let me hide in peace.
“Who in God’s name are you?” Phoebe barked.
A tense silence followed.
“I’m speakin’ to you, fellow. Trespassin’ on my property all willy-nilly, bangin’ up a storm and botherin’ one of my girls.”
“I dinnae mean any harm,” Elias said.
“Then give me one good reason not to shoot you this instant,” Phoebe barked.
Shoot?
Eva jumped to her feet and peered out the window.
The motion caught Elias’s attention, and he turned to her. Phoebe held a rifle hitched upon her shoulder, aiming at Elias. A rare fierceness marked her round features. The polished gunmetal gleamed in the sun.
“Eva,” Elias pleaded. “For Christ’s sake, tell this woman we’re friends.”
Phoebe raised her brows. “Friends?”
Heart hammering in her throat, Eva withdrew from the window and pressed her back against the door. She felt like she was going to be sick. The easiest thing would be to deny it. By denying Elias, she would not have to face her past and the disturbing memories she had tried so hard to move on from.
But it’s Elias.
Elias McKenzie had come to her rescue more than once. The first time had been on horseback in St. Austell when she had a carriage accident and he brought her to the doctor in the village. The second time had been when he returned to Asheford Hall with the time-travelling device. He did not have to do either of those things, yet, he had. Did he not deserve the same kindness from her?
“Eva?” Phoebe’s voice boomed. “Is this true? Do you know this man?”
Her head dropped against the door, and she clenched her teeth. She wasn’t ready to face any of it.
“Please,” Elias said hoarsely.
There was a softness to his voice that made her heart sink. With a huff, she reached for the handle, opened the door wide and forced herself to look at Elias. The effort of facing a ghost from her past made her chest ache to the point she thought her legs would buckle beneath her.
He held still. His observant gaze took in the sight of her. “Eva … God … what happened? How—”
“Stop,” she said quickly, raising her hand.
His face fell.
She averted her eyes to look at a passing butterfly. She didn’t want the sympathy. Or the pity. She didn’t want any of the complicated emotions that came with this mess. All she wanted was to be Eva, wear pants and fix things.
“Does he speak the truth?” Phoebe said, lowering the rifle.
“He does,” Eva said.
***
A short distance away from the Randall farm, Eva and Elias perched on a drystone wall beneath a crooked oak, halfway up a hill. The moorland valley below was a lush spread of purples and yellows.
She had barely looked at Elias since coming across him, but from the corner of her eye, she could see his tawny hair had grown into a curly mane, and his beard was unkempt. He had become a rugged Scotsman.
“I dinnae ken what to say,” he said, breaking the tense silence.
“Sometimes it’s better to say nothing,” she said.
He tilted his head to look at her. “How can ye say that after everything that’s happened?”
She shrugged.
Her mood had considerably soured since his appearance. One moment, everything was rainbows and butterflies upon the Randall farm, and the next, the man who had proposed to her months ago showed up without warning. With each passing second by his side, she could feel herself withdrawing into her shell.
“We thought ye returned to yer home,” he said.
“Well, I didn’t.”
More awkward silence followed.
She sat frozen, waiting for him to mow her down with a slurry of difficult questions. This was probably how the poor fish had felt before he smacked it dead with the intent to cook it over the fire.
“Do not be cross with me for how things turned out,” he said.
A harsh flame of rage burst into her chest. She imagined those words coming from Henry, as if that would be his half-assed apology after the torrent of pain he had dragged her through. Wanting to scream at Elias, she slipped down from the wall, but all she could manage was a pathetic whimper.
He kicked off the wall and approached her.
Impulsively, she reached out to him. Hesitation forced back her hand, but it was a fraction too late, for her fingers brushed his rough hand. She clutched at his forearm, wondering what the hell she was doing and why she needed to desperately feel safe in someone’s arms.
She looked up at him.
This was not Henry, she told herself. Elias didn’t deserve her wrath or coldness. Without further thought, she tucked her forehead against his chest.
His arms came around her shoulders, pulling her closer.
He smelled like leather, sweat and a touch of firewood. And he was warm, so warm, like a furnace radiating heat on a cold winter’s day. She wanted to say it’s good to see you again or how have you been?But it was hard to get the words out of her tight throat and even harder to bring her arms around his torso. At least, for a moment, his embrace brought a much-needed comfort to her core.
Until the beating of his heart tapped against her eardrum.
It’s dangerous being this close to someone. He will betray you too.
She pulled away and turned to face the valley.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
Lost in her thoughts, she stared at nothing and ignored Elias’s question. Her reaction to his embrace confirmed her worst suspicions, that her trust issues were more severe than she imagined. She had noticed the problem in her first conscious week with the Randall family and had since worked hard to fix the issue by not being anti-social. She did not want to revert to her old independent ways of not letting people into her life.
“Eva?”
She cleared her throat. “What?”
“I need ye to explain what happened. I find ye in the north, of all blazin’ places, livin’ with strangers on a farm.”
“I didn’t come here by choice, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then how? Tell me how ye came here.”
Since her arrival at the Randall farm, she had not spoken about the incident that had brought her here. No one had asked. And a discussion about a kidnapping she could barely remember was not appropriate over a nice dinner of lamb stew. Now, with Elias pressuring her to speak about it, she was tempted to spill it all, but she didn’t know where to start. Worst yet, she didn’t believe she could get the words out without breaking into a billion pieces.
“Did Henry bring you here?” Elias said.
The mention of his name made her chest cave in. She forced herself to rein in her emotions. She had to be strong. She had to push forward. There was no use in panicking or crying about what was done.
“No.” She inhaled deeply.
“Then how?”
“Elias,” she exhaled. “Let’s discuss the issue of your broken carriage instead.”
His gaze sharpened on her face. “Ye cannae be serious. I cannae have a conversation with ye about normal things and pretend all is well between us.”
She watched a black ant scurry by. It carried the small corpse of a beetle.
“I can’t tell you what happened,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because if I do, I’m afraid I’ll break.” Her voice was a whisper in the heavy summer air. “If I break, I’m not so sure I can fix myself, and that’s something I’m working hard to do. So, please, don’t ask how I came to be here.”
A red grouse squawked above and Elias glanced at it, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His mouth pulled into a tight line as his fists tightened by his sides.
“May I at least ask if the family cares for ye well?” he said.
“They do.”
“Do they know who ye are?”
“No.”
“They know nothing at all?”
“They only know the injuries—” She bit back her tongue. The words came out faster than she could catch them, and she internally cursed.
He forced his breath through his teeth. “Christ.”
“Don’t.”
“But yer such a wee thing and I can see the change. The scars upon yer cheek, the limp—”
“I said, don’t,” she said in a threatening tone.
He stared at her. “It fills me with unbridled rage.”
“How do you think I feel?” she snapped. “I’ve been filled with nothing but rage and confused hatred for weeks. But guess what? Neither of us can do anything about it, so please, let’s move on with our lives.”
The evening breeze fluttered by, cooling their tempers with it. They glared at one another, breath shaking with raw emotion. In contrast to the quiet northern valleys, with their relaxed pace of life, her heart raced. If the redness across Elias’s cheekbones were anything to go by, so did his.
“Henry is in New York,” he said. “With his wife.”
Her face twitched. That’s fine. You expected this.
“And the time-travelling device?” she said.
“To be honest, if you’re here, I dinnae ken what happened to it.”
The news was another blow to her heart. She flattened herself against the stone wall and allowed herself to feel the force of the pain flooding her chest. Remember this feeling and remember it well. Whether to forgive Henry or not was a question far from her mind. Even if she had the strength to do so, she would probably regret it. She had to focus on herself. Only herself.
“I’ll come by tomorrow morning to look at your wheel,” she said. “If you’re lucky, it might be a quick fix, and you can go on your merry way, finding things that want to stay hidden.”