Who might this handsome stranger be? And why would he tell such an outrageous lie?
He had the smooth, supple hands of a gentleman but the lean body of a laborer. He spoke like one of the upper class, yet his manner was too familiar. No true gentleman would ever talk so directly with a servant.
His apparel added to the mystery. He wore a shirt made of silky green cloth, tailored close to his chest. His hat resembled a cracked bowl. Lustrous black trousers stopped above his knees, and he wore no stockings. I had never seen a man with bare legs. It was too interesting to embarrass me properly.
“This is psycho.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Who are you?”
I could see no reason to hide my name. “Susanna Marsh.” “What year do you think it is?”
Think? Did he expect me to make up an answer? “It’s 1796.”
He looked down at the water, his face tight. “Who’s the president?”
“Mr. Washington.” His questions insulted me. I might live in a village, but that didn’t mean I was unaware of the outside world. “And you, sir? What is your name?”
“Mark Lewis.”
“Why have you come to Worthville?”
“Worthville?” His gaze snapped back to mine. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“A joke?”
Truly, this was an extraordinary conversation. Was he unstable? A whisper of unease rippled through me. I was alone and far from my master’s house. No one would hear me call. Glancing over my shoulder, I gauged my distance to the cliff behind me. If the young man were mad—if he were to leap into the cave with me—how quickly could I climb to the bluff above?
“I have answered your questions honestly. What part do you take for a joke?”
“It is not 1796,” he said through gritted teeth, as if I were the one mocking him.
“Which year do you believe it is?”
“Nowhere near 1796.”
He eyed the bridge of rocks that connected the two sides of the creek by passing behind the falls. He hopped onto the first boulder, then a second and a third. He disappeared. I braced to flee, expecting him to emerge on my side of the curtain of water, but he didn’t come.
He stepped back into view, his eyes wide. “Where did you go so fast?”
“I have not moved.”
“This is seriously weird.” With a step sideways, he vanished again and then instantly reappeared. “You promise you’re not moving?”
I nodded. “I promise.”
“Okay, that’s it.” Removing his odd bowl of a hat, he set it on a dry ledge and turned to face me. “I’m coming over there.” He crouched, ready to spring.
I shrank backwards, stumbling over my petticoat to land with a hard thump. Fear whipped through me, flooding my limbs with urgency. I rolled to my knees, scrambled to my feet, and clawed at the cliff, my toes fumbling for a hold.
Seconds passed, yet no hand wrenched me down to the cave floor. I paused long enough to glance over my shoulder and then stopped, arrested by the scene behind me.
The young man had not pierced the falls. Instead, the water bent, enfolding him in a crystal cape, and was gently delivering him back to his boulder. It was impossible, yet lovely to behold.
“Damn.”
I blinked at the strong language. He’d forgotten me for the moment, his gaze tracing the falls from top to bottom. With a grunt of exertion, he sprang again, only to reap the same miraculous result.
He scowled at the water, an angry jut to his chin. When he punched at it with his fist, it bowed but didn’t break.
“What is happening?” Even though he muttered, the words came through clearly.
Fear forgotten, I returned to my favorite rock and stood a respectful distance from the force of the water. The falls were different, somehow. Dazzling.
Fascination drove me one step closer, then another. When at last my toes gripped the edge of the rock, I glanced down and wavered. The falls pounded the stones below, the creek a boiling cauldron of foam.
Dare I take the risk?
The young man watched me, a challenge in the arch of his eyebrow. Did he find my caution childish? I didn’t like that possibility. No, indeed. I squared my shoulders and stretched forward until my hand breached the flow. Water sparkled over my fingertips, yet they remained dry. When I withdrew my hand, the glittering glove disappeared.
It was so delightful I ignored the young man and the stones and the boiling foam. I played in the flow, marveling as it wound about my splayed fingers like fine silk ribbons.
Mr. Lewis raised his hand slowly and flattened it against mine, palm to palm, fingers to fingers.
I shivered with pleasure. It was most improper for us to touch this way, yet I didn’t break the contact. People never touched me by choice. No, truly, that wasn’t correct. I was grabbed, prodded, or shoved. But a caress? Never. It was alluring.
He offered his other hand, and I met it, too, pressing tentatively at first and then with greater curiosity, enthralled by his warmth. We touched through a shimmering barrier—a silken screen of water that did not wet.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“I’m from the twenty-first century.”
The words echoed hollowly in my ears. The twenty-first century? Why, no indeed. He had misspoken, or I had misheard, or…
I snatched my hands away. “What do you mean?”
“If you really live in 1796, I won’t be born for over two hundred years.”
Two hundred years?
I backed up until the rock wall stopped my progress. It was all a bad joke, a bit of foolishness at my expense, for what he claimed was impossible, and I didn’t want Mr. Lewis to be a liar. “You’re teasing me.”
“No, I’m not.” He gestured behind him. “You see that odd machine? Bikes were invented around 1820.”
“It cannot be.” I shook my head emphatically.
“I agree. It makes no sense.”
Mr. Worth had thundered similar words from the pulpit on Sunday. That which makes no sense must surely come from Satan.
Could Mr. Worth’s claim explain this young man? I didn’t wish to believe it. Mr. Mark Lewis was too polite, too kind, too bewildered to be a demon.
But what other explanation could there be?
Perhaps I had eaten spoiled chicken. Yes, that must be the cause of this incredible dream. I was ill and overtired. I needed rest.
“It’s time for me to leave.” I felt along the cliff for the crevices which served as rungs on my rocky ladder. With a mighty pull, I lifted myself over the lip of land that hid the entrance to my refuge.
“Wait.”
I persisted, ignoring the velvet voice of my dream demon. Swiftly, I pushed through the tall grasses, then plunged into the darkening woods toward the home of my master.
Behind me, the falls whispered: come back.
* * *
The Pratts always retired at dusk. Candles were a luxury my master didn’t care to waste.
The house had settled into silence, save for the occasional scratching of squirrels across the gables. I climbed the narrow steps to the attic, stripped to my linen shift, and crawled onto a pallet of straw in my little corner under the eaves.
Yet sleep eluded me. Memories of the stranger haunted my thoughts. Merciful heavens, he’d been handsome, his hair the deepest of browns and eyes the rich amber of honey. How could evil have such a charming face or such a warm demeanor?
The image of his smile faded into the attic’s darkness and left uncertainty in its wake. Of course, evil could be attractive. What better way to deceive?
I rolled to my back and wiggled for comfort.
Above me, the roof sloped sharply. I reached up and pushed aside a loose board. Fresh air trickled in, teasing me with its honeysuckle scent. Starlight pricked tiny white holes in the dark fabric of the night sky.
Come back.
Had the falls called after me? Or had he?
Could someone truly speak across the centuries?
If so, why should I be the one to hear?
Perhaps our meeting had been a hoax. Solomon Worth might have plotted such a deed. When I rejected his offer of marriage last year, he had blazed with outrage and proclaimed that my ingratitude at the honor of his proposal must surely be a sign of madness. Did he seek to have me doubt my senses? Had Solomon hired the stranger to extract revenge?
I hoped not. Mark Lewis intrigued me. He spoke of things yet to come. I wanted him to be real.
A yawn interrupted my musings. Sunrise was drawing steadily nearer. I needed to awaken before the family to serve their breakfast, but there would be no porridge or toast awaiting them if I didn’t sleep soon.
The loose board fell into place, blocking the night sky and the honeysuckle breeze. I smiled into the echoing void of my space under the eaves and prayed for sweet dreams.