Time's Daughter

By Jo Anne Barnes

Hurled into 1875, a young schoolteacher finds herself living a legend she's heard about all her life. Christina Forsythe lands in the midst of a conflict between wealthy plantatiion owner Rainer Thorpe and his evil stepbrother. Sparks fly as Rainer tries to help Christina return to her century. Can love transcend hundreds of years and keep them together forever?

 

 

Time's Daughter is a recipient of the Literary Titan's Award. 2/2023

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Anne Barnes
• Release date: Oct 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201036829

Jo Anne Barnes

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Book preview

PROLOGUE

He looked like a ghost, but not a convincing one. Too solid. It was daylight, yet he carried a candle she could actually smell burning and wore a nightshirt that slapped his calves when he moved.

Lightning forked the sky, followed by a loud crash of thunder. Hidden behind a heavy drapery, fifteen-year-old Christina Forsythe cringed against the broken window pane, her heart jumping like a jackhammer. She should have stayed in the attic with Susan instead of traipsing around Whispering Oaks alone! Oh, why was she always the one weird things happened to?

The fire’s glow flickered on the graying walls of the abandoned plantation house, washing the room with pockets of light. He stooped and swept his fingers across the floor, then rubbed the dirt between them. Haunting laughter rose from his chest and vibrated against the tall ceiling.

As he lowered the candle, restless eyes gleamed brilliant black, dark sideburns glinted in the firelight. He leaned closer to the boarded door and knocked. When it didn’t open, he stepped back and stared at it, his free hand settled low on his hip.

A damp wind swept the room, billowing the drapery away from Christina’s body. Her teeth chattered, but there was nothing she could do to stop them. The middle of July and she was freezing, wishing for something besides the shorts she wore, wishing for a warm sweater. Dry shoes. His portrait above the mantel crashed to the floor and skidded to her feet. He spun on his heel. For an instant, their eyes locked, sending shivers down her backbone.

Boards flew from the door like splinters in a tornado, and the wind sucked him through it. Somewhere a clock chimed as planks covered the door again, nails and all. She watched the spot where he’d vanished until a shuddering breath of air filled her lungs, and she was able to run.

She raced up the double flight of stairs to the attic where she found her friend bent over a trunk filled with old clothes. When Susan peered up at Christina, her dark brows arched in surprise.

You look like lightning struck you.

Just wait until I tell you why!

Susan must have noticed how frightened Christina sounded as she told about the boards and the man in the nightshirt, yet she acted as though Christina was putting something over on her. The corners of her lips pushed her cheeks in a cramped little smile.

He had these sideburns that came way down to here, Christina said, trailing her jaw to convince Susan.

Ghosts don’t have sideburns.

I didn’t say he was a ghost. He looked like the Master of Whispering Oaks.

Rainer Thorpe? Susan asked between sudden fits of giggles. He lived here a hundred years ago. If his ghost was still lurking around, we would have seen it before now.

He wasn’t a ghost, I tell you. And Rainer Thorpe lived here more than a hundred years ago. How could she explain about smelling the candle without sounding dumb? Or the way he’d looked straight at her as if he’d known all along she was watching him. Did his uncle really lock him in the attic like everyone claims?

They chained him up here, Aunt Mandy says.

Christina surveyed the dusty cobwebs and leaky ceiling, trying to imagine how the attic had looked back then. Susan’s great-aunt had told them so many tales about Rainer Thorpe that Christina had forgotten about the chains. Or maybe she remembered and had shoved them from her mind.

Then he shipped him up north to an insane asylum, Susan said. Of course, his uncle hooked him on absinthe. That stuff probably fried his brain.

You make Rainer sound like a monster. But she recalled Aunt Mandy telling them about the absinthe, the European liqueur that was so dangerous they didn’t sell it anymore, at least not legally.

He murdered his wife.

You’re giving me the creeps, Suze. Christina rubbed her arms, then picked up a hat and blew on the feather. You don’t think I was—

Seeing things? Nah, you take after your mom, not your dad.

Thank you! Thank you! But Susan wasn’t a psychiatrist. She was just trying to make Christina feel better.

Come on, you’re not serious, are you? Susan said. You’re getting even because I jumped out of the closet and scared you yesterday.

Oh, sure, I’m getting even. That explains it.

Susan laughed harder than before, and finally Christina waved her arms in defeat and laughed with her.

After the rain stopped and they were safely on the gravel road pushing their bikes around fallen branches the storm had dislodged, she looked back at the mansion. A shadow fell across an upstairs window. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She wished she believed in ghosts. Better a ghost than the other possibility. She’d hate to think she was seeing things like her dad did sometimes.

CHAPTER 1

A TIME TRAVEL ROMANCE!

I know you're wondering why Susan wanted you to have this, Susan's great-aunt told Christina as she handed her an envelope, but you'll understand in a minute.

Aunt Mandy was seated on a lawn chair Susan's brother had unfolded for her after the memorial service. Her opened purse rested in her lap. Her black walking cane leaned against her knee. Sadness rimmed the elderly woman’s eyes, but unlike Christina, she seemed calm.

Christina traced the rectangle with her fingertip. Something hard, about the size of a postcard, was inside. What's in it?

An old photograph of the young governess of Whispering Oaks, and my is she a pretty thing. Go ahead, open it.

A governess?

Mandy nodded. She's in the legend, remember?

Sort of, now that you mention it. Christina ripped off the end of the envelope. Before she could get a good look at the picture though, Mandy plucked it from her hand.

That's Susan's ancestor with her, can’t recall which one. I think she’s Susan’s great-great-grandmother, Rachel.

Is that why Susan wanted me to have it?

Partly. Mandy dusted the photo with her palm and flipped it over. Says here it was taken in 1875, about the time the Thorpes abandoned the place. Too bad most of the writing is blurred. I'd give anything to know the woman's name. Susan was right.

What do you mean?

Mandy removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. You look like her.

Christina stooped beside Mandy's chair and steadied the picture. It had faded, and that probably made a difference, but she did favor the governess, uncannily so. The woman was slender and tall, taller than Rachel by five or six inches. Her stubborn mop of curly hair looked as hard to manage as Christina's. A strong resemblance too, between Susan and her ancestor. Lively eyes. Pert nose. Surrounded by camellia bushes covered with blooms, the women stood in front of Whispering Oaks with their elbows linked together. If her friends saw the picture, they'd think she and Susan were dressed for a costume party.

Oh, my God, she whispered, stumbling for words. I can’t get over this.

Neither could Susan.

She even looks the same age as me. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, wouldn't you say? Where did it come from?

I found it in an old album that was in my closet, a day or two before Susan died.

Christina's eyes stung as if someone had squirted them with ammonia. She stood, smoothing wrinkles from her navy dress. She'd known about Susan's breast cancer for three years and thought she'd prepared herself for anything bad that could happen. How could she have been so naive?

Her watery gaze shifted to the thinning crowd under the oak tree where the Martins had held the service as Susan requested. People hugged each other, a few waving as they left the park. Christina spotted her parents plodding toward their car, her mother guiding her father through a patch of wildflowers.

Mandy shaded her eyes and squinted upward at Christina. Your family has always lived in Lakeworth, hasn’t it? Susan and I decided the governess must be your ancestor. A small town such as Lakeworth? It doesn't surprise me they knew each other.

Christina dropped the photograph into her shoulder bag. Maybe I'm her namesake. Dad named me after a distant aunt on his side of the family because of my red hair. I'll ask him about it.

Mandy snapped her purse shut. Whoever she is, she's the spitting image of you. Interesting that she worked where you and Susan spent so much time when you were growing up.

Christina agreed. They'd hung around the plantation house for years, dressed in old clothes and played hide and seek, their voices echoing through the long maze of corridors. Chris-ti-na! You'd better hide. I'm count-ing!

I think I'll drive out to Whispering Oaks this afternoon. I haven't been there since high school. It would give her a chance to tell Susan goodbye, something she would have done in the hospital had she made it in time. I don't want to go out there alone, not today. Will you go with me, Aunt Mandy?

I can't, dear. I'm terribly sorry. She motioned toward the Martins, who were climbing into their cars, I offered to take a few pies over after the service.

Christina leaned down and kissed Mandy’s wrinkled cheek. Her skin felt warm and comforting, unlike the tears collecting in Mandy’s eyes. That's all right. I understand.

On her way to the parking lot, she passed the slides where she and Susan used to zoom down head-first on their stomachs, beginning with kindergarten and ending when they were old enough to ride their bikes to Whispering Oaks. A knot the size of an acorn twisted in her throat.

Don't make me say I won't cry, Susan. You know I'm going to cry. All right, I won't cry! Now can we pleeeze talk about something besides your funeral? Wondering how she would keep her promise, Christina dug in her purse for the photograph. She tilted it away from the sun's glare so she could see it better.

A sudden whiff of cool air settled around her shoulders. She hadn't noticed before, but everything about the picture looked familiar. The setting, the clothes, the governess's uneasy smile. Like déjàvu.

When Christina reached her parents' car, she helped her father shed his suit coat and snapped the seat belt around him. His pale, glazed eyes looked almost normal in the leaf-filtered sunlight. Anyone watching would see his sagging forehead, the deep grooves around his mouth, and think Susan's memorial service had saddened him, that Aunt Mandy's eulogy had touched him. They would not realize he was always this self-absorbed.

She walked around the car to the driver's side to tell her mom goodbye. The strain on Grace Forsythe's face seemed more obvious than usual, but she still looked youthful. Her hair, turned under in a loose pageboy, had a healthy gloss most women would envy. Considering all she went through, her eyes hadn't lost their shine, either.

It must be hard losing Susan, Grace said. You look as if you could use a good night's sleep."

I'm all right. Really. Christina cut her eyes sideways and studied her father as he stared through the windshield. If he'd look her way she'd try to talk to him, show him the picture.

Grace shoved her key in the ignition and flashed a weak smile. Marilyn and the kids are coming next weekend. You know how your sister is about her dad. She can't stay away for more than a month. Why don't you join us for supper Sunday night? It will do you good.

Christina crossed her fingers and held them in the air. If I don't have too many lesson plans to prepare. Summer school starts tomorrow. Either way, I'll drop by to see everyone.

You'll let me know something definite?

Sure, Mom. I'll be over in a day or two. She looked at her father again, hoping he would notice her. He didn't move a muscle. For a moment she wished he had a wolf at the door, something awful to occupy his mind. Maybe then he'd shape up and fight his depression instead of caving into it.

Looks to me like you could use some help, she said to her mom. Plan to run errands while I'm there. She stuck her head through the open window and tried to smile. Bye, Dad. You hurry and get well now."

He grunted, which was more than she'd expected. Whenever the depression surfaced he acted like a zombie until the pills began to work. By then he would decide he didn't need them anymore and shove the little brown bottles to the back of his medicine cabinet. She reached across her mother and patted his knee. When they drove away, she waved until they rounded the corner, vowing not to end up like her mother, trapped in marriage with a man who drained every ounce of her energy.

Christina closed her eyes, regretting she didn't feel as close to her father as Marilyn and her other sisters did. They talked about picnics and swim parties, his laughter. She remembered father-daughter banquets he'd never attended, spending sprees that had left their mailbox jammed with bills, her mother crying softly in the room next to hers when she'd thought no one was listening. Yes, her older sisters shared a different father from the one she knew.

Susan had seemed more like her sister. They rode horses, roller skated up and down the sidewalks, and jumped rope with neighborhood kids until late in the evening when mosquitoes chased them indoors. Like the book says, Chris, if you love me as I love you, nothing but death can part us two.

Less than a week had passed since they shopped for fabric to cover Christina's sofa and chairs, ate lunch at Romero's and the next day…her breath caught.

Christina had just received word Susan was back in the hospital when Tom dropped by her apartment uninvited, trying to patch things up between them. Tom, I just don't want to see you anymore, okay? We've gone over this before. Look, I've got to go see Susan. She's very sick. But by the time she got rid of Tom and reached the hospital they'd moved Susan's body to the funeral home, and Christina doubted she'd ever forgive herself for not making it on time.

A black loneliness swept over her and stayed with her at the gravesite, dulling the ringing of church bells, cold grass prickling her knees, and the sound of dirt thudding against bronze. The feeling hovered over her on the drive out to the peninsula, so thick she could barely concentrate on the road.

She parked near the edge of the lake bank and killed the engine. The once splendid mansion with its wide verandas and sleek Greek columns looked in awful shape. She had viewed it through adolescent eyes and thought it romantic, but the windows were smashed, half the balcony missing, and a corner of the house was crumbling. Lakeworth had tried to sell it to anyone willing to pay the back taxes. A pity no one wanted to buy and rejuvenate it. Seeing the place so run down made her regret driving out here.

English ivy clung to the five chimneys, curling around the bricks as though squeezing life from them. Weeds reached up the sides of the raised veranda, and a flock of pale butterflies fluttered beneath the eaves like miniature ghosts.

A whistling noise caused Christina to start. Somewhere nearby, a thicket of jasmine released its cloying fragrance. She rubbed the back of her neck. She was jumpy and knew it, but she'd heard something unusual along the lake bank. It sounded like someone whistling her name. Her imagination was outmaneuvering her again, she told herself with a gutless chuckle. Either that or Spanish moss draping the cypress trees had whispered the sound. She opened the car door and breathed the dank odor drifting off the water. A breeze parted the tall reeds from her car to the side veranda.

She made her way down the path and through the house, stepping over newspapers and pop bottles, empty milk cartons scattered across the floor. Everything worth taking had disappeared. The chandeliers vanished years ago, and now the mantelpieces with their intricate carvings and hand-painted tiles were missing from the fireplaces.

She sidestepped a warped board to get to the room whereas a teenager she'd imagined seeing Rainer Thorpe. She'd never figured out what she'd actually seen. At the time she feared she'd inherited her father's bipolar disorder. Not everyone with the condition suffered hallucinations, but her dad did occasionally, especially during his manic episodes. Snakes, they're everywhere, Chris! On the ceiling, on the walls, coming through the windows. Make them go away!

Christina flinched and moved further into the room. Vandals had pried boards off the door near the fireplace, the one Rainer had disappeared through. While most of the doorknobs in the house were either missing or tarnished, the one on this door gleamed like gold. She twisted it, but the door refused to budge.

She shrugged and turned to leave but then in less than a heartbeat, it swung open, revealing a candle-lit parlor furnished with spotless antique furniture. Sucking in huge gulps of air, she struggled to make sense of it.

Was the senior class producing a play she hadn't heard about? Maybe they'd resurrected the room for their setting. That was it. Miss O'Dell's drama class consisted of eighteen or nineteen students who were always giving plays--at the playground, in the middle of Main Street, wherever they felt like it. Talk about bizarre! They'd outdone themselves this time.

Heavy draperies tied with deep wine tassels framed tall windows that stared at her like a pair of dark eyes. A faded Aubusson rug covered the middle of the room. Rose velvet sofas and matching armchairs huddled around the fireplace, with Rainer Thorpe's portrait hanging above the mantel.

She'd seen the painting hundreds of times, but never had it seemed so alive. Dressed in a frock coat with a soft gray ascot draped loosely around his neck, he looked imposing, yet vulnerable. Something about his haunted eyes drew her attention right to him. He wanted her there. The fixation lit his face with sheer raw energy.

The grandfather clock chimed. She glanced at the windows. Pitch dark outside. Yet on her side of the door, she stood in a pocket of sunlight that made her dress feel as hot as an electric blanket. A painful cry smote the air. It hurled down the spiral staircase through the open door leading from the entry hall to the parlor, slamming into her with strength enough to snatch her breath away.

Panic-stricken, Christina lunged for the doorknob and tried to close the door, but something on the other side held onto it. Oh, God! She watched her feet slide toward the threshold, dug her heels deeper into the wood, and leaned backward, frantically pulling on the door. A child's cry rose amid the clock's chimes, tearing at her insides.

When the clock struck twelve, a woman who looked enough like her to be her twin appeared in front of her. Surrounded by flecks of brilliant light, the woman whirled right through her as Christina flew over the threshold and into the parlor with such force she stumbled to her knees beside a broom tossed carelessly on the floor. All she'd felt was a slight pitch in her stomach, like she'd driven over a bump in the road.

The door slammed, enclosing her in the furnished room. She scrambled to her feet and spun around, all set to dive for the doorknob again when a man's voice called to her.

Miss Forsythe!

She swirled and faced the empty entry hall.

What? she called out, surprised she'd answered and that her voice was calm when her pulse was so erratic. What is it?

A golden-haired man in a corduroy robe thundered down the stairs and through the door separating the entry hall and the parlor. He was in his early thirties, about the same age as Rainer Thorpe in the picture, though not half as formidable. His hollow cheeks caved in under long cheekbones, the harsh lines around his mouth looking out of place on such pale skin.

What the deuce are you doing down here? Can't you hear my niece calling you?

"The child? Yes …yes, I hear her. What's wrong with her?"

That's what my stepbrother pays you for, isn't it? To find out?

Pays me? Who are you? What are you doing in your nightclothes?

Tarnation! Go to Marjorie at once. She's keeping everyone in the house awake.

But you don't understand. I just got back from a funeral, and--

I don't know what the dickens you're talking about. Stop your blathering and tend to Marjorie.

Her fingers knotting at her waist, she watched him take to the stairs in a huff. Did he mistake her for the woman she'd passed? They looked alike, but--she must be dreaming!! How else could she explain it? No high school drama class produced plays this real!

A deep moan, then misplaced laughter rang out, followed by the pitiful cries of the child. She gasped and lifted the hem of her. . . Oh, Lord! A loose-fitting nightgown floated around her ankles. Tight little stitches gathered yards of white cotton at its embroidered yoke.

Flung over the gown a matching duster with pink satin ties brushed the floor whenever she moved. She smoothed her hands over her body, checked her arms, her legs...even her face. What was happening here? So confusing. She felt as if her mind were packed with Play-Doh. She had to be dreaming!

The child's cries grew louder. Acting on sheer instinct, Christina ran across the floor and mounted the stairs, her hair bouncing wildly about her shoulders. For the life of her, she couldn't shake the feeling someone was watching her. Someone wanted her there regardless that she was meddling where she didn't belong. The feeling stayed with her as the child's sobs led her down a dark hallway to a small bedroom.

When Christina stepped inside, she fought to still her racing heart. Dressed in a wrinkled cotton dress, black stockings and shoes, a young girl about five or six slouched behind a child's desk, her folded arms swallowing her face. Marjorie.

Miss Forsythe! The little girl stretched her arms out, tears cascading over her rounded cheeks.

Christina knelt and gathered the sobbing child to her chest. She buried her nose in Marjorie's hair, inhaling her fear. The child smelled of rose petals and warm vanilla, with a tinge of tobacco clinging to her dress.

A single candle burned on the mantel, lighting the room with a pale, ethereal light that made everything look like a dream or a nightmare. On the floor by Marjorie's desk rested a wicker basket with embroidery threads and white linens spilling over the sides. A bed hugged one wall, Marjorie's nightgown draped neatly over it.

Christina stared over the child's head at a tall mirror that must have come from a funhouse. They looked distorted in it, as though they were moving in slow motion. She tilted Marjorie's tear-streaked face to hers, forcing herself to get a grip. Why aren't you in bed, sweet? Had everyone forgotten about her? The poor baby wasn't even dressed for bed.

My stomach hurts, Marjorie said between sobs. You promised to warm some milk.

Her fingers froze on Marjorie's chin. Oh… The woman she'd passed through was Marjorie's governess, the woman in the picture. She'd gone downstairs to warm milk for the child, but what had happened to her? Forcing herself to speak calmly for the child’s sake, she said, You'll have to do without the milk, I'm afraid. Where would she find some? Come on, let's get your gown on.

I want Rainer.

Her heart skipped. Rainer?

Papa doesn't mind if I call him that.

Christina nodded absently, trying to make sense of the dream. Rainer must be responsible for the wild laughter in the attic, the same as in the legend. After talking with Mandy at the memorial service she could understand why she'd dream about him. The governess too. But what about the rude man who'd ordered her upstairs? She'd never heard of him before, though he'd implied he was Rainer's stepbrother.

Christina reached to turn on the lamp. My goodness, she whispered. No electricity?

It shouldn't surprise her except she wasn't usually aware of so many details in her dreams. Why, this didn't seem like a dream at all! She played with the oil lamp’s switch until she raised the wick a half inch. Not knowing if this was right, she struck a match she found on the table and lit it. The flame almost singed her lashes. She jerked backward and adjusted it.

The lamp's soft glow made the room less frightening. It was a friendly room, but tension in the air dominated it. After she had changed Marjorie's clothes, Christina parted the bed curtain, put the child to bed, and tucked the sheet around her.

There, she said, trying to still the tremble in her voice. That's much better.

She sat on the edge of the bed and hummed a lullaby for her own benefit more than Marjorie's. Her hands, which she hadn't realized she'd wadded in tight little balls, unclenched as she neared the end of the song.

Marjorie's eyes popped open. "May I have