Chapter Nine

A n hour later Libby was finally left alone with Lucy, who was curled up next to her. Libby was growing fond of Cora but was glad when the bustling woman finally left the room to find something for Libby to eat.

Cora's closeness while Libby was nursing made her nervous. Cora seemed to take personal pride in what a good eater Lucy was and made sure both Libby's breasts got equal treatment from the baby. Cora had kept talking the entire time she was in the room, filling Libby with stories of being nanny to Brad, his brother, Caleb, and sister, Sybil. In Libby's mind it all came down to how much Cora loved babies and was happy to have them in the house again.

Any time Libby tried to ask Cora questions about what the year was or where she was, Cora either ignored her or changed the subject. Libby was getting the strong feeling Cora would just as soon have Libby stay here with Charlie and Lucy, whereas Libby only wanted to get back to familiar surroundings.

Libby laid her head on a pillow as she loosened the tightly wrapped blankets from Libby. Obviously, Cora believed children needed to be confined, while Libby thought babies should be able to wriggle and squirm freely. As she contemplated her new daughter, she let her mind wander to her conversation with Brad. While Cora was in the room, Libby had given the room a good once over, at least as much as she could while still in bed.

Something wasn't right here. There wasn't one light switch or outlet in sight, nor phone jacks or heat registers. There had to be some source of power. Even if this were an historical home, the employees would want electricity. Why hadn't Brad or Cora called for a doctor or an ambulance to take her and Lucy to a hospital to be checked out? It would certainly have been the first thing she would have done. Most places would be concerned about a lawsuit if they didn't take care of their customers properly.

Libby didn't want to think about the idea niggling in the back of her mind. But the idea kept coming closer to the forefront. What if it's really true? What if it really is 1870? Which was totally ridiculous. Things like that only happen in books. This is simply a big joke. If she concentrated really hard, reality would come back, it would be 2024, Ben would be alive, and they'd be on their way home.

Libby closed her eyes. Flashes from the past twenty-four hours flew across her mind. Ben and her in the car. The lightning. Snow. Their car spinning out of control. Ben yelling to her. Waking up in a buggy. Ben dead. A hooded man helping her into a house. His strange clothes and way of talking. His confusion at her questions.

1870... 1870... This was crazy. But what if it hadn't really been a storm? What if it was a time warp, or time window or something? There's enough of those things in movies and books, but could it happen in real life?

Libby punched a pillow as more images whipped through her mind. Cora's treatment of her. The pot under the bed she had to use. Those awful rags between her legs was carrying things a bit too far. There's no reason why pads couldn't be used. But what about all the oil lamps around, and the fireplace? And wouldn't a real historical house have air conditioning to keep the antiques from deteriorating?

Libby's head throbbed. She scooted herself to the edge of the bed, picked up Lucy, and placed her in the cradle. She slipped on a robe from the end of the bed. It was time to do a search of the room. Maybe some answers would get rid of her headache. Without Ben, it was time she took charge.

"Now, let's see if I can find something to put an end to this crazy 1870's idea."

Stiffly, she moved around the room, looking under the bed, peaking behind dressers, and lifting the rug for hidden outlets or registers. She moved pictures and checked behind the doors. She even checked the fireplace for removable bricks which might conceal anything modern.

Libby chewed on her fingernail in frustration. It was probably time to give up. The people here were too good at hiding modern conveniences. Then she spotted a leather-bound book Brad had brought into the room earlier. A feather pen and bottle of ink rested next to it. It took a few moments for curiosity to overcome her natural ability to allow people their privacy. Tentatively, she ran her hand over the black book, picked it up and sat in the rocker.

‘Whispering Pines, A Farm History,' was etched on the front. Nerves fluttered in her stomach while her heart raced. She opened the cover.

She continued to read quietly. "Castlewood Manor. The Chronological History of a Family Farm from its Beginning to Present Day Time." Beneath the title was written in bold script, "History of Whispering Pines from the year of our Lord, 1867 to Present Day Time. Owner: Bradley Christopher Kemble."

"1867?"

Libby was an avid history buff and was excited to learn about this historical place. Her hands shook as she read the first page. Now she was about to get some answers.

It didn't take long for Libby to became engrossed in the listings of marriages, births, and deaths of the Castlewood family for a several generations. She was vaguely aware of Charlie waking up and Cora talking to him about having something to eat and letting his mama get some sleep. She tried not to get upset as she skimmed through pages about the buying and selling of slaves as well as produce and animals. Her stomach did a flip when she reached the page titled, "Whispering Pines, Purchased June 14, 1867."

On the first page were entries stating the value of the land and buildings, amounts spent on refurbishing the farm, and what was paid to employees.

Libby sighed in relief. "They didn't own slaves. It looks like they came with the place and paid them as employees."

Scattered in between the listings were names of people who were born and had died. She recognized names from the old section of the book and followed family weddings and births. She noted the births of babies Libby surmised were grandchildren of Cora. With surprise she read the listing of Brad's marriage, but why it should have surprised her, she couldn't guess. He had said he was married. Or had he? She couldn't seem to remember.

"Marriage of Bradley Christopher Kemble to Lucinda Marie Chapman, August 25, 1866," she read slowly. "Lucinda Marie? Now that's a coincidence if I ever saw one." She didn't think of it again as she continued to browse through the next few pages. So absorbed in the details of refurbishing the house and trying to relate them to what it looked like now, Libby nearly missed several entries written in a shaky, masculine hand.

"March 15, 1868: Birth of Caleb Barrett Kemble, son of Bradley and Lucinda."

"March 15, 1868: Death of Caleb Barrett Kemble, son of Bradley and Lucinda."

"March 15, 1868: Death of Lucinda Marie Kemble, wife of Bradley."

Libby lowered the book to her lap, tears filling her eyes. Oh, the poor man. The pain he must have gone through.

"Wait a minute, Libby, they can't be the same man. The man in this book must have remarried and carried on the Bradley Kemble name. It can't be the same guy."

Mentally shaking off the idea, she continued through the book. There weren't as many entries after Lucinda's death. The handwriting was not as bold and sure as previously. It was as if life had gone out of its owner.

Libby came to the last entry surprised and disappointed when it ended in 1870. She had wanted to continue reading until at least another generation had elapsed. As she was about to close the book, the name Lucinda Marie caught her eye. Curious as to why Brad's wife would be in here again, she looked more closely.

"What on earth?" With shaking hands, she ran her finger under the entry. "Oh, my God!" In the same handwriting as the other entries was written:

"March 16, 1870: Death of Ben Daniels, husband of Libby."

"March 1870: Birth of Lucinda Marie Daniels, daughter of Ben and Libby."

The book slipped from her lap and fell to the floor.

****

"M ommy. Mommy!!" A voice came from a distance. Someone tugged on her robe.

"Miss Libby? You all right? Miss Libby?"

Libby opened her eyes and tried to focus on the two people in front of her. Both wore worried expressions.

"Mommy, talk to me. I need you!" The child said.

"Miss Libby, we need to get you into bed. You need your rest."

Libby felt herself being pulled up and guided toward the bed. Her robe was removed and the cool sheets gave relief to her hot body. She wanted to kick off the heavy quilt piled on her, but she didn't have the strength. Sleep. All she wanted to do was sleep and forget, but she couldn't remember what she wanted to forget. The murmur of voices grew more distant as she drifted off to a place where worries ceased to exist.

****

L ibby was playing tug of war. She was at one end; light and voices at the other. The harder Libby tried to pull herself into darkness the more the light tugged her back.

"Don't fight. You'll be all right," a soothing voice whispered in her ear. "I'll take care of you. Go toward the light, Libby. Go toward the light..."

Peace filled her. As she reached toward the light she kept hearing the words: "Everything will be all right. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."