Timewatch (27 page)

The thought of going through life with nothing filled him with dread. Peter realized that he was not like his mother, who had always seemed to him a heroic and awe-inspiring figure out of Greek myth, a veritable Medusa or one of the Furies meting out terrible punishments to the unfortunate.

Peter sighed, but his spirits revived as he realized that now his mother's fate was in his hands. The time had come to take action. Exactly what action he wasn't sure, but something. He would do something. Soon.

CHAPTER 32

For the last two days since Kiontawakon had brought news of Jason's death, Nicholas had been brooding. When Marjory arose early to fix their breakfast, she found Nicholas slumped in a chair and staring fixedly at his gun on the table.

“I don't see what good we're doing,” burst out Nicholas, “dumped into 1692 in New England with not a clue as to why we've come.”

“Jeremy must know what he's doing.”

“That may be, but is there something he's not telling us, maybe
quite a lot of somethings?
”

“I think we have to trust him.”

“Why? Maybe an alternate future wouldn't be as bad as he said.”

“Would you rather we had stayed home and did nothing, just let the Morgan line disappear?”

Nicholas drew back a little at this and said, “No, of course not. I just worry that J.J.'s death was a prelude to all of us being wiped out. And I'm not even a Morgan,” he said with an attempt at humor.

Marjory put her hand over his. “Nicholas, I know it's frustrating not to know what's going on—not to mention having none of the amenities of modern life—but we will have to use our intuition to discover our purpose here.”

“And if that's not enough?”

“I don't believe that for a minute.”

“There's something I haven't told you.” Nicholas ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. “We may have a problem. While going over the household goods and furniture here, I learned something.”

“What did you find out?”

“I picked up that flintlock. Fourteen years ago in 1678 Josiah Matthews used it to kill a man.”

Nicholas's face was white. Poor man. He was such a gentle person. It must be quite a shock to find that in the past you had killed someone and that all the emotions surrounding the past were lodged firmly in your mind.

“How did it happen?”

“I, or rather Josiah, had heard that a few cases of smallpox had been found in Boston. He was desperate to find his sister and take her away from there. When he got to her house …”

Nicholas stopped, overcome by emotion. Then he pulled himself together and continued. “He was too late. He found his sister and her husband in bed—dead. Ghastly sores covered their bodies. Their little boy had died the same way. But three-year-old Becky was unmarked and lying on her parents' bedroom floor. She had died from starvation.”

Nicholas moistened his lips. “Then Josiah heard a noise downstairs. When he went into the parlor, he found a man there putting a locket, which Josiah had given his sister on her birthday, into his pocket. He shot him.”

“Oh, Nicholas, how dreadful!”

He looked up at her and said, “It's beginning again.”

“What is?”

“Smallpox. One of the things I picked up from Josiah's mind was that there have been rumors of the disease in Boston. Last time it killed one-fifth of the population of that town. What will it do this time? And Salem isn't that far from Boston.

“You see what this could mean? We could die here before we ever find out what we're supposed to do.”

“Why don't we delve some more into our hosts' memories? At the very least, we might learn something useful, perhaps find out why Kiontawakon doesn't want us to visit Susanna Morgan.”

“We have nothing to lose,” said Nicholas gloomily.

They sat back in the uncomfortable chairs and closed their eyes.

“Here's something,” said Nicholas. “Two Morgans live around here, not only Susanna but also her son, Peter.”

“I wonder if she's the Susanna Geraldine's been dreaming about. According to Priscilla's memories, Susanna keeps her son, her business agent, on a short leash, giving him hardly any money to live on.”

“At least not enough for a family to survive on,” observed Nicholas. “And if he doesn't have a family …”

“There won't be any Morgans,” said Marjory, letting out a deep breath. “So our job must be to persuade Susanna to pay Peter a decent wage so he can have a family.”

“But is it likely that a stubborn old woman like her would listen to us? From what I gather from Josiah's memories, the Matthews weren't particular friends of hers. In fact, Susanna has a history of not listening to anyone.”

“Still, we have to try,” argued Marjory. “And I have an idea that might work.”

Susanna Morgan, her hair tucked neatly underneath a ruffled white cap and her figure encased within a full-skirted gown made of some dark, heavy stuff, could have sat for a portrait of a typical Puritan woman. Age had been cruel to her. Her skin was muddy and wrinkled, her body stooped. But her eyes were bright and filled with a wary intelligence.

Marjory was surprised that Susanna had received them at all. When she and Nicholas had arrived on the doorstep of the large house, the maid answering the door had been doubtful about letting them come in and had kept them waiting in the hallway for some minutes before returning with the message that Susanna would receive them.

They had found Susanna sitting in front of an ornate fireplace where a well-stoked fire made the room very warm. Unsmiling, she asked them to sit down.

Her voice was a surprise, resonant and vital. “So what brings you two to my house, Goody Matthews and Goodman Matthews?” she asked.

Marjory said, “Ever since childhood I have had the Sight. Lately, I have had some rather disturbing revelations.”

“I have known you for years, Goody Matthews, as a God-fearing Christian woman, but if our pastor should hear of these
revelations
, he might well think you were in league with the devil. What say you to this?”

“I will tell you only the truth, Mistress Morgan, and trust to your good sense to discern whether this be from God or no.”

“You may or may not have the Sight, but it puzzles me why you see fit to make me your confidant.”

“Because it touches you, Goody Morgan, and your son.”

Susanna's voice was harsh as she exclaimed, “Peter! What has this to do with him?”

Nicholas had that closed look on his face that told Marjory she was on her own.

“Sometimes the fate of nations depends on small things, upon whether, for instance, a man's or woman's line dies out so that those who might have performed certain works affecting the course of that nation's history never come to birth.”

Dead silence. Susanna's face was impassive. Only a tic at the side of her jaw showed that she was in the grip of some strong emotion.

When her words came, they were slow but full of intensity. “Last night I dreamed of my son. I saw him going to our pastor, telling him of his suspicion that I was a witch.” Susanna spat out the word
witch
with a virulence that startled Marjory.

“In my dream, they took me and condemned me to hang, and, of course, if that happened, Peter would inherit my property. It has happened to others. I will tell you this—I am ready to disown Peter. He has always hated me.”

“Not hated but loved you, but he thought that you never returned that love.”

Susanna laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “You speak of things you know nothing about. He is weak.”

Following an intuitive feeling that had been building in her ever since Susanna had mentioned her son, Marjory asked, “Like Jeremy?”

“What do you know of my brother?” demanded Susanna.

“He never contacted you after he went to Amsterdam. You were left to fend for yourself in London, where, if it had not been through the good offices of a certain gentleman who ensured your survival by making you his heir, you would have starved and worse.”

“No one knows this,” said Susanna, giving a violent start. “Do you come by this information through your gift, or have you been spying on me? What do you want from me?” she shouted.

“Only that you listen to us,” said Marjory, striving to keep her voice low and soothing. “We ask nothing for ourselves, only that you follow your heart, for, you see, if the Morgan line ends with Peter, then great destruction will come upon these colonies, for his descendants have a great work to perform.”

Susanna went back to her seat before the fire and sat down heavily. Most of her ill temper appeared to have left and a tiredness to have set in. “What do you suggest?” she asked with a touch of sarcasm.

Marjory tried not to let her sudden joy show. “Let Peter have enough to live on to support a wife. He is of an age when most men have married.”

As though afraid of saying anything impulsive, Susanna pursed her lips together. “I will think on this matter. Good morning to you both.”

I have done my best, thought Marjory, but was it good enough?

Walking back to their house, she glanced at Nicholas, who was kicking offending clods of dirt out of his way. The certainty came to her that he would be as glad as she to part. This lifetime has shown her that they had little in common.

However, it was fortunate that he had come with her. She might not have found out their incompatibility until too late. Certainly, he must know that, too.

Also, it would have been terribly awkward for her to live in that small house with Josiah Matthews, a complete stranger. And, most importantly, it was Nicholas who had hit upon the salient fact that Peter Morgan couldn't marry because he didn't have enough money to support a family.

Nicholas said little until they reached their little house. He flung himself into a chair and asked, “So what's to eat? More damn slop?”

“Yes, that's all there is,” replied Marjory quietly.

Nicholas looked at her with contrition in his eyes. “I'm sorry, but this place is becoming more than I can take. Not a cup of coffee in the whole place or anything to read except a Bible, and I'm not about to start reading
that
now. When I was a boy, my parents shoved enough religion at me to last lifetimes.”

Muttering something about “religious fanatics,” he'd gone outside, and that was the last she'd seen of him until it became dark. When he returned, he went straight to bed. Then, when Marjory was quite sure that he was asleep, she'd slipped into bed beside him. She had no choice: it was the only bed in the whole house. As she listened to his snoring, she wondered what kind of future she or the other Morgans had, or if they even had one.

CHAPTER 33

A thumping at the door woke Marjory. Was it Indians ready to burn the house down around their heads? Stupid idea. One would never hear them until it was too late. This had to be a neighbor.

As she pulled on a robe, she reflected that it was good, for once, to feel no aches in her joints. She'd miss that part of their adventure, the body that was 20 years younger than her own, but she wouldn't miss being stuck here in this repressive society.

Nicholas was still asleep, his arm flung over his eyes, his jaw slack, and his mouth half-open. He hadn't taken too well to this time frame, either.

The man at their door had a hard, insolent look to him. “Goody Matthews?”

“Yes, and who might you be?”

“Abel Granger, Mrs. Morgan's man. She bade me tell you that she would receive you at ten o'clock sharp. It is now past eight,” he said pointedly, his gaze flickering over her with barely concealed distaste.

No doubt to him she seemed like a layabout.

Ignoring his rudeness, she said, “I will be there at the appointed hour. Good day, sir.”

She closed the door and went back into the bedroom.

“Who was that?” asked Nicholas sleepily.

“Abel Granger, Susanna's servant. He came to tell me that she wants to see me at ten this morning.”

Nicholas opened his eyes at that. He didn't seem the least bit concerned that Susanna didn't want to see him. In a much better mood than the night before, he said, “I think I'll go out and find something to put in the pot.”

While he was gone, Marjory swept the ashes out of the hearth and picked a few more vegetables to put in the pot simmering on the hearth.

When it was almost time to leave, Nicholas still had not returned. She hoped he was enjoying himself. Tramping around outside was the only time he seemed happy. Marjory went to the wardrobe that held their few clothes and chose a bonnet and cloak. She put them on and went outside.

The day was clear and cool. The sky was a bright blue with huge flocks of passenger pigeons flying overhead. By the 20th century, they had been hunted to extinction. She took a deep lungful of the bracing air filled with the scents of growing things in the fields and the forest that surrounded the small village. A faint smell of wood smoke hung in the air. In the distance, she could see the fiery red bursts of maples and men cutting down trees for wood to burn in the long winter ahead.

The mile-long walk to Susanna's was invigorating. Along the way she met a few folk, who nodded to her as they passed. She was surprised to see that some of the women were dressed very elegantly with extravagantly decorated hats and lace at their throats, their coats fastened with ornamental buttons and fancy braided trims. No doubt the pastors would thunder from their pulpits against this luxurious display.

Susanna's maid answered the door and this time immediately took her in to see Susanna, who was seated in front of a fire.