The Time Heiress

The Time Heiress

by

Georgina Young-Ellis

Book Two Time Mistress series

The Time Heiress by Georgina Young Ellis

© Copyright 2011 Smashwords Edition

Second Edition

www.georginayoungellis.com

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No portion of this work may be reproduced by any means whatsoever without the explicit written consent of the author and the author's publisher. This work contains people who have been used in a fictionalized setting for the purpose of historical reference. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is used strictly for the embellishment of the story to lend creditable influence to the fictionalized work. The copyright laws of 1988, namely the Berne Convention Copyright Laws of 1988, and the Digital Millennium Copy Right Act of 1998, enacted by Congress protect this work from piracy and any transmission, trade, or sale through means electronic, printed, shared, or otherwise is strictly prohibited and will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

Cover art Design by Dark Water Arts Designs.

The final approval for this work was granted by the author. This book is a Scifi Time Travel Series under Galaxy Press.

This book is dedicated to my father, Bill Josh Young - 9/29/29 - 5/3/11

Acknowledgements

A heartfelt thanks to Cynthia Copeland, my historical expert and consultant on this book.

Special thanks to my husband, Jonathan Ellis, my son Joshua Ellis, my mother, Patricia A. Young, my sisters Juliana Young and Susan Young-Freeman, and my brother Joshua Young. I'd also like to thank my Editor, Kathlyn McGreevy, and my friends and readers, Tara Hein-Phillips, Susan Izatt, Teresa Barile, Barbara Silkstone and Richard Mattiello.

An extra thanks to the supporters of my Kickstarter Project, which helped fund the time I needed to finish The Time Heiress: Charly Drobeck, Richard Mattiello, Margaret Waldram, Adrienne Stroud, Vinie Burrows, Rhonda Madsen, Mary Riordan, Laura Horvath, Ellen Reed, Jeannine Hogue, and Nell and Bert Gibson.

Chapter One

From my earliest days I worked in the fields. My hands were small and nimble so I could get ahold of that cotton. When the deep, red blood from cuts on my fingers would stain the pure white, the boss would beat me, or worse - dock my quota so the next day I’d have to pick more. I don’t remember my mama. I just know I lived with Lillian and Samuel, and though they were young ones themselves, they took care of me like I was their own.

One day, I saw Samuel beat for what reason I don’t know. The hate I felt for Master rose up in me bigger than ever and that night I told Lillian and Samuel that we had to run away. They didn’t hesitate. They said yes, right off. I was around twenty years old by then, Sam and Lill a few years more (though none of us knew our exact ages). They’d been lucky all these years, a brother and sister not sold apart. Also lucky that Master kept off of Lill—probably afraid of Sam, him being so big.

After that beating though, we got word they were thinking of selling Sam down south, so we didn’t waste time. On the new moon, in early spring, we went. The night was pitch-black, and it was cold. There were still patches of snow on the ground, but we could see the North Star through the mostly bare tree branches and we kept following it. When daylight broke, we slept in a corn crib and ate the little food we’d brought, some corn cakes and baked yams. By night time, we were cold and hungry. I thought about turning back. I knew we’d be whipped. Still, at least back home was food and a warm shack. But when I thought about them selling Sam, I knew we had to go on. We looked for that star and kept moving. It was slow walking ’cause the ground was wet and we were stepping in mud and mire. We went, feeling from tree to tree with owls hooting, and wolves crying, and so many terrible sounds from who knows what. Then we heard the dogs.

─From Caleb Stone’s narrative, as remembered by Dr. Cassandra Reilly

The paparazzi crowded the entrance to MIT’s Stata Center, making it nearly impossible for Cassandra to shove through the doors. Inside, the security guards kept the onlookers at bay while she made her way to the Chronology Department on the fifth floor. She was ridiculously nervous about meeting the famous artist, her stomach churning with each illuminated number as the elevator ascended. Cassandra’s book about her journey to England of 1820 had made her somewhat of a celebrity in her own right, but she was hardly a household name like Elinah Johnston.

Professor Carver’s secretary was waiting as the doors opened and indicated for Cassandra to enter the office. As she did, Elinah rose to greet her. Hi, I’m Evie.

Her sea-green eyes were the exact color of Benedict’s―so startlingly familiar. It was disconcerting to see them peering out of the beautiful face of a twenty-seven-year-old woman with wild black curls, full lips, and a body that would be the envy of any Hollywood starlet. The young woman’s skin, a light fawn color, was complemented perfectly by a dark red, knit dress, long-sleeved with a high neck. The frock hugged every inch of her body, from her muscular arms, to her long, shapely thighs, then flared coyly, just above the knee. Tights and high-heeled black boots completed the ensemble.

Cassandra willed her mouth to close before she accepted the offered handshake. C-Cassandra Reilly.

Ladies, please sit down, Professor Carver said. As they complied, he moved swiftly to his own seat behind the heavy wooden desk, reminiscent of early Americana, and whirled his chair around to face front. He sat forward, forearms perched on the desk. His dark eyes held an expression of excitement. Ms. Johnston is a big fan of your book, he told Cassandra.

She continued to stare as the young woman nodded vigorously, her black curls bouncing.

Really. Well, thank you, Cassandra said to her. Professor Carver tells me you want to travel to around the time period when your ancestor Ben Johnston lived, but I still don’t understand why. You must know that it’s an extremely complicated and expensive undertaking and can be quite dangerous.

Yes, I know, but I became fascinated with the idea when I was wandering around the churchyard of All Angels in New York after attending a concert there, and I noticed tombstones that bore two of my family names, Johnston and Williams. I mentioned it to the pastor, and he told me both families were involved in the abolitionist movement before the Civil War. When I researched my family tree, I discovered that, yes, they were my ancestors! That’s when I decided to see if I could go back to that time and meet them. She flashed Cassandra a bright smile.

Cassandra glanced at Professor Carver, her brow knit. A person outside of the Chronology community didn’t just get to time travel because they were interested in their family history, no matter how famous they were. Do you also have slave ancestors that you know of?

No, no, I’m part African, Japanese, English, and a few other things, but my black heritage comes from my mother, who’s from Kenya originally. Her ancestors are all in Africa; they were not part of the slave history here. So it’s really my white ancestors that were involved with abolition, including Benedict’s daughter Cassandra, named after—

Yes, I know. Cassandra cast a look back at Professor Carver. His eyes were alight with interest.

He broke into the conversation. Ms. Johnston, I think Dr. Reilly and I need to consider your proposal in private. I have the financial information and can pass it on to her. What we really need to discuss is if there is scientific value in the journey.

Evie rose. Oh, I understand. And Dr. Reilly, I also understand your hesitation in undertaking a project like this. I know that tandem travel is usually not done, but I also know that your work here needs funding, and I’m not only willing to finance our journey, but those of other scientists here at the lab as well.

I’m sorry, did you just say our journey?

Well, yes, of course, you would need to come with me.

Cassandra jumped up from her seat. Wait a minute, wait a minute! Nobody said anything about me going! I have no intention of traveling again, at least not any time soon, especially not with—

Professor Carver stood as he spoke. Cassie, calm down, nothing has been decided. We’re only listening to Ms. Johnston, and considering, that’s all, and I’d really prefer we continue this conversation in private.

I’m sorry, Dr. Reilly, Evie interjected, I didn’t mean to upset you, but I think if you consider the merits of my proposal—and the kind of money I’m talking about, you will be convinced. Thank you so much for your time. It was very nice to meet you. She reached out to shake hands, and Cassandra reciprocated mechanically. Oh, and I brought something for you. Please, I’m not trying to bribe you, she laughed lightly. It’s just a token of thanks for considering my proposal. She handed Cassandra a package wrapped in brown paper. Have a nice day, she said. She shot a flirtatious smile at Professor Carver and picked up her bag.

The professor leapt to open the door for her. Thank you so much for coming, Ms. Johnston, we’ll be in touch soon. Do you need me to walk you to your car?

No. She flicked her wrist and spoke. Frank, I’m ready. Turning to the professor she said, My bodyguards will meet me at the door. Thank you again for your time.

Her smile was still on high voltage.

Professor Carver grinned back at her and closed the door. He turned to Cassandra who looked up at him, hands on hips. She’d tossed the package onto the chair behind her.

All right now, Cassie, let’s talk about this.

There are so many reasons why this cannot happen, she spat, I don’t know where to begin.

Then first let me tell you why it should happen.

We need the money?

No. Her boss was exhibiting his famous calm demeanor. He lightly stroked his hand over his close-cropped, gray-speckled hair. That’s the least of it. But first, let me tell you how much money we’re talking about.

The figure he uttered hung in the air like a tangible object. He went back to sit behind the desk and Cassandra sat too, shoving the small package out of the way.

So, because she’s this big celebrity and has a lot of money to throw around, she gets to do whatever she wants, is that it?

Cassie, it’s not just that she’s rich or famous. You know me; I’m not impressed by that kind of thing.

Cassandra raised her eyebrow a fraction.

It’s the merit of this journey she’s proposing that really intrigues me. It’s a subject near to my heart, and I would be fascinated to go myself and interact with people, both black and white, who were involved in the struggle for abolition.

The conclusion he’d already come to was obvious.

But it doesn’t make sense for me to go, for so many reasons. I mean, being black, I could not move about freely in that world, the same as a white person. I would not only be ineffective in the experiment, but it would be dangerous for me.

Then why is it okay for Elinah Johnston to go—and why does she call herself Evie?

It’s her nickname, she said, short for her first name, Evelyn. Elinah is her middle name and she uses it because, as you can see, she’s proud of her Kenyan heritage. She only lets certain people call her Evie.

Cassandra remained unimpressed.

And, though she’s part black, she can go to preCivil War New York without a problem, why?

Because she’s so light skinned she could pass for white. A lot of people of her color did the same back then. And traveling with you, she could be your companion—perhaps a young artist wanting to see the world, but needing a chaperone to do so.

I thought the idea of passing for white was offensive.

It is. But back in the antebellum era, it was sometimes necessary and certainly advantageous.

And does she understand she’d be trying to pass? Is she comfortable with that?

She’ll do whatever is necessary; she really wants this. And you, of course, would be a wealthy widow, on vacation or something—

Again with the wealthy widow!

So, you’re considering it.

I didn’t say that. There are so many details to think about. First of all, she wants to go to New York City, right? My God, I can’t go back there while Ben is still alive!

He died fairly young, am I correct? What year was it?

1848.

That’s perfect. She is interested in traveling to 1853, when Cassandra Johnston and her grandfather were at the peak of their involvement in the cause.

How soon does she want to go?

She’s talking about the spring. He winced.

This spring!?

Well, yes.

But it’s—

I know; we’d have to start preparing everything right now. The portal, everything.

Cassandra took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. But Elton, what is her goal, what is the purpose of the experiment? Is she submitting a thesis to the Board?

I don’t think that will be necessary. The goal, for the purposes of the Board’s decision, is simply to meet her ancestors and understand what they did for the cause of abolition. Not very much was recorded about their work.

I’m going to have to think about it. My life is just returning to normal. Nick and I are just starting to feel like a couple; he’s not going to be crazy about this either.

It wouldn’t be a long journey. You’d only be gone a month. The two of you would be merely passing through, in New York for a holiday or something. It would be fun and interesting. Just think, mid-nineteenth century New York—what a fascinating time! Wouldn’t you love to see it?

Don’t try to distract me, Elton. Preparing for a journey like this will be doubly hard with the press underfoot. They follow her and her entourage around constantly.

She promised me she will keep it low key. No entourage, no fans—the press…well, that will be harder to control, I admit, but I think it’s worth the trouble.

She sank back into the aged leather chair and something crunched. She pulled the package out from behind her, tore off the paper, and gasped.

What is it?

She slowly turned it around and showed it to the professor.

His mouth dropped open. It must be a print.

Cassandra ran her hand over the surface of the picture. No, it’s the real thing.

It was a small, abstract self-portrait of the artist, one that Cassandra recognized instantly as among the most famous of Elinah Johnston’s works, nestled in a hand-made, rustic wooden frame. Its value was immense.

I think she is trying to bribe me, she said with a sardonic laugh. She set it on his desk. At any rate, I’m not keeping it.

Yes, you’re right. You have to give it back. He picked it up and examined it. I guess it shows, though, how serious she is about this proposal.

Cassandra slowly shook her head. She looked out the window at the frozen Charles River below. Was it possible Elinah Johnston’s wealth, fame, or beauty was influencing her normally unshakable boss? Perhaps a little of all three. I’ll think about it, Elton. But I don’t like her method of convincing me. Will you please give it back to her?

Yes, leave it here, and I’ll speak to her about the propriety of offering you such a thing. But Cassie, if this trip is going to happen, we’d have to get started next week.

Give me two days. She stood and he rose with her.

All right, and thank you.

I haven’t said yes.

I know, he said, giving her a peck on the forehead and a gentle hug. I’ll talk to you soon.

She returned his affection with a kiss on the cheek. Okay. See you later.

Cassandra exited the building. The paparazzi had evaporated. She walked south through the MIT campus, across a highway, where the cars glided quietly to a pause as she crossed. She wandered along the Charles River to just before the boathouse and rowing skiff. At that time of year, with the water frozen, no one was around. The temperature was in the low thirties but her lightweight clothing was programmed to keep her comfortable regardless, even with the wind blowing in off the water.

She stared across at the Boston skyline, the gleaming dome of the three-hundred-and twenty-year-old State House still vivid amidst the towering skyscrapers, and Harvard Bridge quaintly poised to allow for the passage of vehicles that its builders could not have vaguely imagined. The images of the present began to recede, however, as thoughts of England from the year 1820 took their place. Though she tried not to spend too much time thinking about her relationship with Ben Johnston now that she and Nick were together, sometimes the recollections came flooding back beyond her control as they did now, especially after seeing those eyes, Ben’s eyes, looking at her from Elinah Johnston’s face.

The icy surface of the Charles River became the backdrop for her memories of Sorrel Hall, the beautiful mansion she’d lived in for a year, its sweeping grounds, its forests, hills, and streams, and the rustic little cottage where she and Ben met to make love as often as possible, the thrill of the secrecy of their affair still palpable. His eyes, those sea-green eyes, his mouth, his hands, his sinewy body―heat rose through her thighs. She took a deep breath. It wasn’t right to be fantasizing about him anymore. He’d been dead for almost three centuries, and she was now in a relationship with the man who had ultimately proven to be the hero when she needed one most.

Then there was her son James. He was beginning to plan his own experiment a few years from now. He’d insinuated himself into her journey, having convinced Professor Carver to let him go back to England six months into her stay to check up on her. The repercussions from a particular mistake he’d made during that trip had been so dire the thought of them now caused a chill to run through her body, replacing the heat from a few moments ago, and further sobering her toward this new venture. Evie Johnston thought it would be a fun adventure to get dressed up in period clothes and pop into the past, check out some ancestors, maybe attend a ball, pretend to be goddamned Scarlett O’Hara gadding about in the antebellum north, but heaven forbid something would go wrong. If she didn’t go with Evie, someone else would have to, and Cassandra was the most experienced among her colleagues. This trip seemed to be becoming inevitable, the girl being so intent on it happening she was willing to use one of her priceless pieces as a bargaining chip.

Cassandra headed over to the nearest Cambridge subway station, and in five minutes was exiting within a block of her townhouse on Mount Vernon Street. She went in, changed her clothes and gave Nick a call.

When she walked into the restaurant, she spotted him sitting at their usual table overlooking the harbor. Nick’s face lit up when he saw her, and she smiled in return.

He stood to greet her. Hi!

She kissed him lightly on his full, welcoming lips. He was so undeniably handsome: his warm brown eyes, his high cheekbones, and his thick gray hair, worn long, a little past his ears.

The waiter blustered up to the table. His face was flushed, and a few strands of what remained of his hair had blown out of place. Cassandra! Nick! How are you! So good to see you!

Hi, Henry! they chimed.

Two cups of clam chowder and a bottle of Montepulciano, am I right?

You got it, said Nick. Right?

Cassandra laughed. Sure.

Henry hurried away with the order. Cassandra breathed in the smell of fresh bread baking, and the salty tang of clams steaming in the kitchen. A fire crackled in a nearby fireplace and warmed her face. On a Monday night, the restaurant wasn’t busy. The few couples in the room murmured to each other over the clank of silverware and china.

It was cold today, Nick commented.

Yes, but I didn’t mind it. She enjoyed teasing him a moment―withholding the news he was surely impatient for.

You look beautiful. Have you been wearing that all day?

No, silly, I put it on for you. I know you like me in a dress.

Henry returned with their wine, opened and poured it, then took their main course orders and trundled off again.

Tell me! Nick finally blurted. Tell me what the famous artist is like!

Well first of all, she said, her face growing warm, she absolutely has Ben’s eyes.

Nick’s smile faded.

I’m sorry to have to say that, but it’s true. Anyway, it doesn’t matter; it was just interesting to see that a characteristic like that could be carried down through so many generations.

Yes, I agree. The enthusiasm returned to his face.

Also, she’s even more beautiful in person than in any images you’ve seen.

Really?

I’m afraid I was pretty rude to her, though.

You were? Why?

Because I don’t like the idea of the rich and privileged getting to do anything they want.

Forgive me if I take her side, being rich and privileged myself—

But you don’t take advantage of it. She even offered me her most iconic painting to convince me, the self-portrait.

What?!

I didn’t accept it. I gave it to Elton to give back to her.

Geez. So, has the project been approved by the board?

Well, no, not yet. Carver needs my decision before he presents it to them.

But why is it up to you? I mean, I’m sure Carver wanted your input, but why is it your decision?

Because she wants me to go with her.

Cassandra held Nick’s gaze while Henry brought the soup. He placed it before them soundlessly and scurried away.

Nick finally spoke. Go with her?

Yes. She wants to travel to New York 1853 to meet Ben’s daughter, Cassandra Johnston, and she wants me to go with her.

Color drained from Nick’s face as he stared down at his soup.

But Nick, Ben will be dead.

Oh, yeah. His skin regained its usual hue. How soon does she want to make the journey?

I’d say within six months—by the spring, actually.

His spoon stopped mid way to his mouth.

I know, I know, Cassandra hurried on. It’s really soon. But obviously she’s got the bucks to make this happen. She can throw endless resources behind it.

I’d like to be part of the support team, Nick uttered after he’d swallowed his mouthful of soup.

I think Elton is hoping you will be.

Nick inhaled deeply. Are you really up to this? To be traveling again so soon?

Well, I never would have considered it before today, but now to think about seeing New York during that time period, to meet actual abolitionists, Ben’s daughter, it would be incredible! It’s just that… She took another spoonful of chowder.

What?

She took a moment to chew and swallow before she spoke. I just can’t help feeling like this is some kind of bizarre whim of hers, a whim she can act on because she is who she is.

Well, I’m behind you, whatever you decide to do.

She squeezed his hand across the table. You’re the best.

Henry returned and presented them each with a steaming plate of linguini.

This looks great. Thank you, Henry, said Nick with a smile. He picked up his fork and twirled the pasta around it, then set it back down.

Cassandra’s fork was already half-way to her mouth, a succulent clam poised on a mound of pasta. What’s the matter?

I’m suddenly not very hungry.

Did I upset you?

No, no, not at all. Will you excuse me for a second?

Sure.

He got up and glided away toward the men’s room. The door was just visible from where she