ONE

The air was bitterly cold, piercing to the bone. The numbing chill forced its way into her consciousness, prompting Jessica Dunlap to open her eyes and stare around her.

She stood in a small room with rustic pine furnishings, roughly plastered walls, a low ceiling, and a wide board floor, unpainted and worn in places. None of it was recognizable.

All was very still; only her breathing and the muted whimperings of the month-old child in her arms disturbed the silence.

Yet what Jessica was seeing couldn’t be real! A moment before, she’d been standing in the warm bedroom of her twentieth century Connecticut home. It was Christmas morning, and the sun had been streaming brightly through the window as she held her son in one arm and approached her husband, who sat expectantly on the edge of the bed. His smile had been brilliant, his arms outstretched in welcome as she’d stepped forward.

But she remembered how, suddenly, that smile had been wiped from his lips. . . how his image had begun fading, drifting in and out of focus before her. She blinked her eyes, thinking something was wrong with her vision. Then she’d heard his pleading voice as though from a distance, calling to her, begging her to come quickly, to take his hand. His eyes—those beautiful, vivid-blue eyes, fading before her own horror-struck gaze—were filled with alarm and urgency.

She’d rushed forward, reached desperately for his hand. She’d barely been able to see him any longer. "Oh, God," she’d prayed. "Let me find him!" Then she’d felt him. . . felt his warm, strong fingers closing tightly around her own. . . and then he was gone.

Now this cold, strange room. She and her son alone. No sign of the tall, dark-haired figure with his vibrant blue eyes, his warm smile, his comforting arms.

All color had drained from her face. It couldn’t be true! After all they had shared together, she couldn’t have lost him!

It had begun so unexpectedly a year and a half before, on May the 5th, that otherwise unexceptional day when Christopher Dunlap, elegant, privileged English nobleman, had entered her life. She remembered so well now driving over the winding country roads that afternoon, from her office toward home, the Connecticut landscape green and glorious with budding spring. Suddenly, startled by an unnameable sensation, she’d glanced to the supposedly empty passenger seat beside her to find him seated there, dressed in the long-tailed jacket and tight breeches characteristic of the early nineteenth century. At first she’d stared in disbelief—she must have been seeing things! But there’d been nothing imaginary about him. He’d been real; he’d been there as much in the flesh as she. Yet how and why had he come to be in the car beside her? She’d felt fear, then outrage, at his ridiculous behavior. How she’d smirked at his presumptuous attitude and speech, laughed at the affectation of his dress and at the absurdity of his apparent belief that he was living in a world one hundred and sixty years in her past. Yet how quickly her scoffs had turned to bewilderment and astonishment as he’d displayed proofs of his identity: gold coins, a small fortune’s worth and none bearing a date later than 1811, although they looked almost newly minted; a packet of letters he said were written to him and by him, the earl of Westerham, all dated 1812 and seeming too authentic to be denied.

His stupefaction was equal to her own, yet he was the first to be convinced of the truth—extraordinary as it was—that he was a man swept out of the world of 1812 England into twentieth century America, carried forward in time by a phenomenon neither could explain.

Thus had begun their life together. . .a fairy tale, the meeting of two people whose paths would never have crossed had not fate thrown them together to share an unimagined relationship. As they’d faced each day, never knowing what force had brought them together or whether they would be separated with the same suddenness, Christopher had learned to adjust, to accept with some equanimity the wonders of modern technology: television, electricity, indoor plumbing, automobiles, airplanes. In the months that followed, he’d begun making a place for himself in his strange new world, surmounting the obstacles that faced him, gradually discovering that his life in the twentieth century was becoming more important to him than the life he’d left behind.

He had fallen in love with Jessica, and she with him. They had come to share the intense love of two people who wanted to spend the rest of their lives together without the specter of separation hanging ominously over them. They had to try to discover the truth of Christopher’s destiny—whether or not he would remain in the twentieth century, or be swept back in time to his own world. They’d traveled to England, to the ancestral estate he’d left one hundred and sixty years before, hoping to find in the family archives some evidence, some proof of whether or not he had returned. It had taken many days—nerve-racking ones for Christopher especially.

But the facts he’d finally discovered in an old diary had filled them with joy. Christopher Robert Julian George Dunlap, ninth earl of Westerham, born 26 June 1780 in Cavenly, Kent, England, at the age of thirty-two a renowned and sought-after member of London society, a man rising in prominence in the House of Lords, had, on 5 May 1812, disappeared without trace from the world he’d known.

A search for him had been conducted, but nothing had been uncovered, and in due course his title and estates had ceded to his cousin and heir, who’d lived to a ripe old age as the tenth earl. The former earl apparently never had returned to reclaim what once had been his, and his disappearance was still considered a mystery.

They’d felt so secure then, so happy in their conviction that they weren’t going to be separated by time, that Christopher was to remain in the twentieth century. That they could live their lives as normal people, loving without fear. They’d returned to Connecticut and embarked on their future with vigor and high expectations, purchasing a home in the country, starting the horse breeding farm that was Christopher’s dream. Their son, Christopher, Jr.—Kit—had been born a month before, and they were justly proud of their healthy, handsome child.

Jessica had carried him into their bedroom early that Christmas morning. Christopher’s expression had been jubilant as he’d sat on the edge of the bed, arms spread wide. "Let me wish my fine son a Merry Christmas, too," he’d called.

Tears welled in Jessica’s eyes, a blinding, stinging heat, as she thought of what had come next...what had occurred in those last moments. Where were she and Kit? Where was Christopher? Why weren’t they all together? Was he nearby? Or—and a feeling of dread swept through her—had she lost him forever?

She tried to analyze her surroundings. Through the windowpanes, harsh daylight flooded the room in which she stood. Slanting rays of sunlight cast white-gold trails over the simple furnishings. Behind her was a narrow bedstead, at its head a washstand bearing pitcher and bowl. To her left was a fireplace in the recesses of which hung a soot-blackened kettle on a swing arm. In front of her were a plank table and two ladder-back chairs.

Through the windows she saw a winter landscape, a few inches of snow blanketing the frozen earth. In the distance stood a large white house several stories tall. The house, the lay of the land, were strangely familiar to Jessica. Dormer windows poked out from the gambrel roof, and various additions to the house branched off to the back and sides. A wide drive running alongside the house led to two large barns and a small cottage edged by a stone wall that climbed the low, rolling hill to the rear. Near the barn a rough wagon was parked, and beside it stood several other pieces of horse drawn farm equipment. Wispy white trails of smoke floated from the three large chimneys of the house.

The scene might have been from a Currier and Ives print, so perfectly did it embody the atmosphere of the nineteenth century New England farm. Was that precisely what it was?

She thought again of that last instant in the bedroom—of her husbands’ hand gripping hers. Was that the link? In making that physical contact, had she and Kit moved with him into another plane? Had they, too, become travelers in time? Yet if that was the case, why weren’t the three of them together? Had they made that physical contact only to be carried in different directions?

The baby began to fuss, screwing up his tiny face, clenching his small fists. Jessica gently rocked him, adjusted the folds of her robe and his blanket. Wherever she was, whatever had occurred, she had to carry on, however frightening the thought was.

As the baby quieted, she rubbed a finger across his smooth cheek and thought of the day she and his father had named him. There’d never been any question that he’d be Christopher Dunlap, Jr., but in arriving at a diminutive to avoid two Christophers in the house, they’d disagreed.

"Chris sounds more American," Jessica argued.

"And you know how I despise that abbreviation directed toward me," he retorted. "You have some deep dislike of the name Kit? It is what I would have been called had I been named for my father."

"I don’t have anything against Kit, but I think of him as Chris."

"And I as Kit—from the moment the doctor told me we had a son and held him in the air for us to see."

She’d looked up at him sidelong and saw he wasn’t about to change his mind. "Okay. But I want first choice in naming our next child."

"Do you?" His brows lifted. She could see laughter in the eyes that had been so serious a moment before.

"What’s fair is fair."

"Agreed, my love. What interests me is that you are already thinking about our next."

"Eventually, Christopher." She’d grinned. "Eventually."

Now she wondered if "eventually" would ever come. Her sigh was deep and painful. She couldn’t think of that now. Not now.

Again becoming aware of the cold, of the need to protect her son and herself, she stepped quickly toward the bed, noting the thick down quilt spread over its narrow width. Wrapping the warm folds around Kit, she laid him in the center of the bed, where he’d be safe for the moment. However, the quilt’s insulation wasn’t nearly enough. On the fireplace hearth was a basket of kindling and a few neatly stacked logs. If she could get a fire lit, it would solve the immediate problem of the cold.

She could find no matches, but on the hearth was an object she guessed might be a flint. It took her some frustrating moments of fiddling before she raised a spark and ignited the dried leaves she’d scattered under the kindling. When she was sure the fire would continue burning of its own volition, Jessica returned to her son. He was sucking hungrily on his closed fist. In a moment she would have to feed him, but first she needed some warmer covering for herself. Her thin nightgown and robe were no protection against the cold air.

Hoping there might be something in the cupboards along the wall, some spare blankets if nothing else, she reached for the latch of the first of the two doors. Beyond was a storage room, its walls lined with wooden shelves holding various items, from mason jars to rags. The second door opened into a smaller closet, where various articles of clothing hung from wooden pegs. She was grateful for her luck. There were a worn, woman’s cloak and several long faded, drab, full-skirted dresses, all old-fashioned, a century or more out of date. A pair of high-topped, laced lady’s shoes rested on the floor next to a small trunk, its hide coverings and leather straps cracked and dried with age. She lifted the lid of the trunk and found half a dozen folded articles at its bottom—an old shawl with a torn fringe, several pairs of darned wool stockings, a limp linen camisole and a petticoat of the same material, clean but yellowed with use and age.

She took from the closet the heaviest of the dresses, a deep-gray wool with long sleeves and a high, plain neckline. The fitted bodice buttoned down the front to just under the bust, where the high-waisted skirt gathered to fall in straight lines to the ankles in the style of the early nineteenth century. Jessica removed her robe and dropped the dress over her silk nightgown, retaining the latter for added warmth, and drew her long dark hair from under the collar to fall in a gleaming mass down her back, then fastened the buttons of the bodice. Although the dress had been made for a shorter, heavier set woman and was somewhat baggy on Jessica’s slim form, it was warm.

Returning to the opened trunk, she reached greedily for the wool stockings she’d seen there and, leaning against the doorjamb, pulled them over her numb toes. She looked back to the trunk and drew out the tattered shawl, which she wrapped around her shoulders, at the same time discarding her own lightweight, uselessly decorative robe into the trunk. She closed the old humped lid and picked up the leather shoes on the floor nearby, taking them to the bed to try them on. The shoes were snug, but they were better protection for her feet than the flimsy satin slippers she’d been wearing. If she laced them loosely, she could get by.

Standing, she tested them, then went immediately to her son. He was fussing, hungry for the feeding he should have had an hour earlier. Jessica could feel a fullness and soreness in her breasts brought on by the delay, and knew a moment’s guilt for having neglected the baby. Taking Kit in her arms, she pulled one of the ladder-backed chairs before the fire, which flamed heartily. At least his tiny hands felt warm now as they pressed against her. She studied her son’s face, so small, so perfect in its innocence: the minute nose, the fading red pressure marks of birth that now only slightly tinged his forehead, his lightly etched brows and lips—so like his father’s—his chin, already showing the barest hint of the Dunlap cleft, the cap of dark hair curling with infant fineness over his round head.

She loved him so, it was like a warm tide surging through her. A tide that reminded her of her feelings for his father. Already, despite the shock of the abrupt change that left her feeling dazed, the thought of Christopher brought a yearning, an aching emptiness that she knew would never be assuaged until she had found him and they were together again.

The worst of the chill had left the air. The quilt protected Kit, but as Jessica touched him tentatively, she found his bottom wet. What was she going to do for diapers? . . She thought of the old petticoat in the trunk. If she could tear it into strips, it would work. With a gentle hand, Jessica burped the air bubbles from Kit’s system, then rose and placed him carefully on the bed before going to the trunk and pulling out the old petticoat. The material ripped easily in her hands, and in almost no time she had a square of cloth of approximately the right size. She folded it, then removed her son’s wet diaper and replaced it with the dry linen.

The baby, comfortable again with a full stomach, was already beginning to doze off. Jessica covered him carefully, gently dropped a kiss on his rosy cheek, and went to lay another log on the fire.

She was bending over the hearth, settling the log in place with the fire tongs, when a knock sounded on the door. Startled, she nearly dropped the tongs. Had she been hearing things? The knock sounded again, more firmly, this time accompanied by a woman’s voice. "Hello! Is anyone there?"

Hesitantly, with a deep fear, Jessica moved forward. She had no choice but to answer the door—yet what could she say to the unknown woman on the other side? How could she explain her presence?

"One moment," she called, forcing into her tone a steadiness she didn’t feel.

The wooden latch stuck for a moment under her trembling fingers, then gave way suddenly as the door swung inward, letting a cold rush of air into the room.

A middle-aged woman stood on the stoop. Her mittened hands held closed a voluminous hooded cloak, which she let slide open as she stepped briskly into the room. Beneath her cloak she wore a deep-green wool dress of the same high-waisted style as Jessica’s, but with lace trim about the neck and sleeves. Kindly-looking brown eyes gazed at Jessica as the woman drew the hood back from her gray-streaked brown hair, which was pinned in a bun at the back of her neck.

"I am Amelia Beard." Her voice, though pleasant, was cautiously reserved as she scrutinized Jessica. "Mistress of this farm. And you must be the new maid sent up from New York. I saw the smoke coming from the cottage chimney and came to investigate. The agency didn’t give me your name, only vouched for you."

"Jessica Dunlap." She took the small hand extended to her. Her voice quavered as she absorbed the woman’s words, barely daring to believe in the authenticity just given her.

"But we expected you a week past," the woman exclaimed. "What delayed you?" For all her mild aspect, Amelia Beard was also clearly a perceptive woman.

And at the moment she was a very puzzled one, as well. This young woman before her was not at all what she’d expected. Too attractive. Was there something to be learned here, under the surface of things? Miss Dunlap’s appearance didn’t fit that of serving maid.

"We had begun to think you had changed your mind," she said. "I can understand how difficult it must be for a young woman accustomed to city life to uproot herself and come to the Connecticut countryside, but I assure you we have most of the comforts of the city, with the schooners sailing frequently in and out of Eastport harbor. Of course, with this war of Mr. Madison’s it has been difficult. Let us hope 1814 will bring an end to it." She paused, wagged her head. "But what delayed you? You came by stage?"

Jessica could only nod mutely to the last question as she rapidly digested the information just given her and tried desperately to maintain her composure in the face of her astonishment. Two facts stood out. She was in or near Eastport, Connecticut, the town of her birth—where she’d lived for most of her twenty-nine years of life, where she’d met Christopher, where she’d conceived their child. But this wasn’t the Eastport of her living twentieth century memory. This was, just as it appeared to be, the Eastport of the early nineteenth century! Jessica’s mind was shirling.

"True," Amelia Beard continued, unaware of Jessica’s turmoil, "they would not chance sending you up the Sound in a packet. The British have stayed to the east of us—but who knows how long that will remain the case? But why did you not come directly to the house?" She peered quickly around the room. "And where is your luggage? Have you unpacked?"

Jessica, knowledgeable about the history of the area in which she’d grown up, manufactured a story that followed along with what Amelia Beard was telling her. Lying was an unfortunate necessity.

"I’m afraid I’ve lost my luggage. When we stopped along the way, it was discovered that the baggage straps on our conveyance had broken and several articles were missing, my luggage included. Someone was sent back to check along the route, but he discovered nothing and. . . and presumed the straps had broken while we were fording a stream. The fallen baggage must have been washed away."

Amelia Beard shook her head. "Well, not a new tale. The performance of the stages can be most disgraceful. You did not walk to the farm from the stage stop, I hope?"

"A traveler coming this way was kind enough to give me a ride, but because of the early hour, I didn’t want to disturb you. The cottage was open. It was cold, and I lit the fire. I hope you don’t mind."

"Mind? My dear, had I known you were arriving today—on Christmas of all days—I would have had the cottage in readiness for you. And you with no luggage!" Her lips pursed. "I am certain we can find something for you in the house. The maid’s uniform will give you a change of clothing, at least. And I have two grown daughters of about your size. One or two of their older gowns should suit for the time being."

All the while Amelia Beard had been speaking, she’d continued appraising Jessica. Now she tilted her head slightly to one side. "You are a very comely young woman—not the usual sort to be seeking such a position. Those with looks such as yours are usually long since wed, snatched up immediately—" She stopped abruptly, her eyes catching sight of the band on Jessica’s finger, and widening. "But you are married!"

"I. . . yes . . ."

"I had no idea! The agents said they were sending a single woman."

"I didn’t tell—" Jessica was cut short by the sudden wail from the side of the room. Her face paled as Amelia Beard swung around, eyes riveting themselves to the small, blanketed mound on the bed.

"What is this? Sounds like a child . . . a babe?"

"It is." Jessica sought vainly for words of explanation as Mrs. Beard walked toward the bed.

"An infant! Yours?"

"Yes, mine."

"You never told us! The agents certainly did not. There was no stipulation in our agreement for a mother and a newborn babe. It will interfere with your work."

"Please let me explain."

But Amelia Beard was already lifting Kit from the quilts, soothing and cradling him with experienced hands. "Hush, hush. Yes, quiet now. My, but it has been a long time since I held a child of your size in my arms." She looked piercingly to Jessica. "Girl, boy?"

"Boy."

"His name?"

"Christopher. We call him Kit."

"And his father?"

Jessica hesitated, then rushed into the story she’d been formulating in the last few minutes. Her sentences were clipped, her voice breathless in her nervousness and her revulsion at having to weave such a lie. "My husband’s a seaman." Remembering how Christopher had loved sailing and the sea, the profession was the first to pop into Jessica’s mind. It also provided a handy excuse for his present absence. "He signed on with an American cargo vessel that sailed over six months ago. He knew that with the war it wasn’t a wise move, but he needed the work. I stayed at our lodgings in New York, waiting for him. Then the child was born. My husband should have returned long since. The money he had left was running out. I had to find some work to support the baby and myself."

"Did you inquire at the shipping offices? Could they give you no information about your husband’s vessel?"

"I am embarrassed to say I didn’t know at which shipping office to inquire, and I don’t know the name of his vessel. It was only to be a short trip."

Amelia Beard’s expression was thoughtful, and Jessica waited with clenching stomach. This cottage was all she had. It afforded no luxuries, but at least it offered warmth, protection. If she and Kit were cast out, what might befall them? Where would they go? What would she do?

"Why weren’t you honest?" Amelia asked finally. "Why did the agents give me a lie?"

"I needed a job so badly, I didn’t dare tell them. I accepted the position hoping that when I arrived, you would understand. I didn’t know what else to do. I had to find work, and this position was by far the best offered. I could find nothing available in the city, and I didn’t have the resources to wait. I am terribly sorry for the deceit."

Mrs. Beard’s brow was furrowed. She liked the girl. Her immediate impression was, on balance, a positive one. Yet . . . to show up on her doorstep with a baby, a missing husband—one could only wonder if her story was true.

"It is not what I expected," she spoke firmly. "There are some from whom I would never believe such a tale, but you have the look of an honest woman about you, and you are wearing a ring—no brass trinket that, either." Her eyes again rested on the white-gold band, adorned with sapphires, on Jessica’s finger.

"It was my husband’s mother’s . . . a family heirloom," Jessica explained. Here at last was a bit of truth.

"He comes from a prominent background then? A colonial?"

"English. He came here looking for a better life."

Amelia nodded. "Came upon hard times—no need to explain. Two generations ago my family, too, came from England seeking a new start. But these are bad times to be in your husband’s profession—the blockade, the British impressing our sailors—enough to make one’s blood boil! Didn’t we fight fairly enough for our freedom? I lost two uncles in that war. Mr. Beard, too, lost some of his family. General Tryon burnt most of this town to the ground. I head stories of those days from Mr. Beard’s father. . . how the family helped those from town who lost everything to the redcoats’ torch."

She wagged her head, then another thought crossed her mind. "Your husband will know where to reach you?"

"I left word at our lodgings in New York." As she spoke, Jessica prayed that Mrs. Beard would not ask where those lodgings were.

Fortunately Amelia Beard didn’t ask, and Jessica realized from the look in the woman’s eyes that she had accepted the story. Jessica’s relief was almost palpable, yet she knew this was only the first of many obstacles she would find in her path.

Already there was the obvious question of the maid she was being mistaken for. Where was the other woman? Since a week had passed since she was due to arrive, Jessica could only hope that the woman had changed her mind just as Mrs. Beard had begun to suspect.

Amelia Beard’s tone of voice found a more sympathetic note. "I can understand why you were not honest with the agents. Positions for women in your situation are few and far between. Not that I like evasiveness, but you have come to us now, and we will make the best of it. I think you will work out."

"Thank you—thank you so much. You are very kind."

"It is just that I’ve been blessed—sometimes it is a curse—with being able to see through people better than most would care to be understood." She smiled. "You are not English yourself, are you?"

"American."

"I thought so. You met your husband here, then?"

"Yes."

"No family of your own?"

"They are all gone." That, too, was the truth. She had no family to reach out to now.

"Sad. And you seem a well-educated lass—certainly more so than the regular house servant. Life can deal cruel blows. We have all suffered a few. Now—let us find a place for the babe in the kitchen. Kit, you called him?"

Jessica nodded.

"I have an old cradle we can put by the kitchen fire. Cook Fletcher will tend to him while you work—no doubt she will spoil him—and Rachel, the kitchen maid, can give a hand. We can spare you time from your duties to feed him. Not much over a month old is he?"

"Just a month."

"He’ll need his mother. Never could see putting a child this age in the hands of another. It would be best if you stayed with us in the house for the present. We have a spare room near the servants’ quarters."

"Oh, Mrs. Beard, that’s not necessary. It’s so very good of you, but Kit and I will be comfortable here."

"Not as comfortable as in the house." Amelia Beard had made up her mind and was not to be swayed. Whether the story of a missing husband was true or false, the young woman was not of the common stock. She showed refinement, intelligence, a good background. And she was obviously suffering. Amelia felt an almost motherly urge to give her some protection. "The babe’s too young. You will stay in a room upstairs that’s large enough to be used as a nursery."

"I don’t want to intrude on your family."

"You will not intrude. You will be very welcome. I have always loved little ones. Well, fetch your wrap, and we will go up to the house. A good breakfast is what you need, and Cook will have it ready."

As Amelia Beard moved toward the door, still holding Kit, Jessica went to the closet to collect the old cloak she’d seen hanging there. She pulled it around her shoulders, and Amelia wagged her head.

"You have naught but that old thing to protect yourself? A wonder you have not already caught your death. Well, come along. It is but a short walk, and you will be warm soon enough."

The snow crunched under her boots as Jessica hurried after Amelia Beard, down the narrow path from the cottage, across the drive and up a short walk to the back of the main house. They entered from a small roofed porch—on one side of which cords of firewood were neatly stacked—into the kitchen of the farmhouse. Jessica felt a comforting blast of warmth, mingled with tantalizing cooking smells, as Mrs. Beard opened the door and hurriedly preceded Jessica into the room.

"Well, Molly," Amelia called to the plump and rosy-cheeked woman who stood at the table kneading dough. "A surprise for us all—our new maid has arrived. She was staying in that drafty cottage for fear of waking us on this Christmas morn! Can you imagine! A good thing I went to investigate that smoke from the chimney. Come in, Jessica, come in. Warm yourself, and Molly will give you a bite to eat."

Closing the door behind her, Jessica stepped forward across the brick floor. A tremendous fireplace filled most of the back wall of the large, low-ceilinged room. A wide range of utensils hung from the beams, and spacious cupboards were set against the walls. The cook was working at a long harvest table that stood in the middle of the room opposite the hearth. A white gathered cap covered some of her graying blond hair, and she wore a gray homespun gown, the front of which was almost entirely covered by a starched white apron. She looked up curiously.

"Jessica," Amelia Beard continued briskly, "this is Molly Fletcher, our cook. I know you will find her happy to help you until you are familiar with your duties. Molly, this is Jessica Dunlap."

Molly smiled warmly as she wiped floury hands on her apron and stepped across to meet Jessica. "Welcome, dear, and Happy Christmas. ‘Tis a good house to work in. You’ll be happy here." Her voice held traces of an English country accent, and its pleasant intonation immediately put Jessica at ease.

"I am glad to met you, Molly."

"Aye, the same—but you look a bit weary."

"As she is bound to be," Amelia said, "after her journey and with no food in her stomach. I promised her one of your good breakfasts. Have a seat, Jessica." Amelia waved her hand in the direction of the table. After removing her cloak and draping it over the back of a neighboring chair, Jessica took a seat at the table.

"I have some hot porridge right here on the fire." Molly smiled. "And warm bread. A glass of milk, too. In better times I would offer a bit of tea, but it is hard to come by these days."

"The British blockade," Amelia Beard explained to Jessica. "Although I imagine you were faced with the same scarcities in New York."

Molly went to the cupboard for a wooden bowl, filled it with steaming porridge from the pot on the hearth and set it and a spoon on the table before Jessica. Then she fetched a cutting board with a loaf of fresh bread, a crock of butter, and a jar of jam.

Mrs. Beard still had Kit bundled in her arms, so well protected by his blanket that even his tiny face was hidden. When Molly passed with a mug of milk for Jessica, she noticed the child and stopped dead in her tracks.

Amelia laughed at the expression on the cook’s face. "Another surprise for you, Molly. Jessica has brought along her babe." Amelia was already slipping the folds of the quilt away from Kit, who fidgeted at the loss of the cozy warmth.

"Well, I’ll be," Molly exclaimed. "Tis a babe! And such a lovely one!"

"Yes, a fine lad," said Amelia proudly, sounding as though Kit were her own grandson. "I was a bit taken aback when I learned about the child, but I believe we will all get along very well. Where is Rachel? I want her to run up to the attic and find the old cradle. We can set it here by the fire, and Jessica can tend to him between her chores. . . though I am sure the babe will not be lacking attention."

"Rachel’s in the dining room setting the table for breakfast. I’ll go and fetch her." Molly bustled away through the swinging door at the far end of the room, and Amelia Beard took a seat in one of the kitchen chairs, perfectly content to continue holding Kit while Jessica finished her meal. The porridge, flavored with cinnamon, immediately warmed her, and the milk she sipped was far richer and creamier than she’d tasted before.

In a moment Molly came back into the kitchen with a slender, dark-haired girl dressed similarly to the cook in a gray gown, a long, starched apron, and a white cap.

"Ah, Rachel," Amelia Beard greeted her. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, ma’am."

"I had not intended to give you extra duties on Christmas, but I need you to fetch something from the attic. Under the eaves you will find an old wooden cradle. Bring it here to the kitchen. Then also gather some linens and a blanket or quilt."

"The cradle?" The girl was obviously puzzled by such an odd request.

"Yes." Amelia smiled almost conspiratorially. "We have need for it. As you can see." She turned so that Rachel had a clear view of Kit.

"A baby!"

"Indeed so, and his mother is seated right here at the table. Rachel, I would like you to met our new housemaid, Jessica Dunlap."

The girl swung around, surprise written on her features.

"Jessica, this is Rachel Coombs, kitchen maid," Amelia continued.

Jessica smiled at the girl, but Rachel merely nodded and turned back to Mrs. Beard.

"Well, hurry along, Rachel. We want to get him settled."

Rachel bobbed quickly and scurried away.

"Once we get the child comfortable, Jessica, I will take you through the house, but let me explain a bit about your duties while we have a moment. You will be responsible for the cleaning of all the rooms in the house, although there are several guest rooms that will not need more than a weekly dusting, and a good cleaning twice a year. You will not be expected to serve at the table—that is Rachel’s job—except on her day off or to help her out during a large party. You will have one day off a week, and on Sundays you are welcome to come with us to church service. It’s a bit of a trek, so in the worst winter months we attend only when the weather is clear. Cook takes care of the marketing. Once a week Jeb Latham, our farmhand, takes her into town in the wagon, but I am sure you will have no objection to giving Cook a hand with the heavier shopping should she need assistance. It will be a good opportunity, too, for you to get out to Eastport and see the area. This northern section of Eastport is known as Silvercreek. Before the Revolution, it was a small town on its own. There is still a small market, and a meetinghouse, and of course the mills all up and down the river. You will find it a pleasant place to live."

"I am sure I will," Jessica said evenly, but her mind had caught on Silvercreek. Amelia Beard had just confirmed that Jessica was in the very neighborhood where she’d lived with Christopher in the twentieth century. Now she understood why the Beards’ house had looked familiar. She could picture it as it had appeared almost two hundred years later. Minor exterior changes had been made by then. The cow pastures around the house had grown back to woodland, but the barn remained and, in a modernized form, the cottages. She guessed there would be other buildings in the area that would be familiar to her, too. Perhaps she could even visit the site of her twentieth century home, she realized suddenly with a start. The house wouldn’t be standing, since it had not been constructed until the eighteen thirties, but Jessica could walk over the grounds where she and Christopher had found such happiness together. Again she felt a knot of anguish in her stomach. Oh, Christopher, she cried inwardly, as she sat, outwardly composed, at Amelia Beard’s kitchen table. Where are you, my love? Please, please be somewhere nearby!

Rachel bumped into the room then with the bulky cradle, jarring Jessica’s thoughts back to her present surroundings.

"That’s going to need some dusting," Molly observed. "I’ll just brush this flour off my hands."

The cook had already grabbed rag and was approaching the cradle, but Jessica intercepted her. "Let me do that. You still have your bread to finish."

The cradle was a sturdy and beautifully crafted piece, obviously made with love, and the activity helped to keep Jessica’s whirling thoughts and fears at a safer distance. By the time Rachel returned bearing linens and blankets, the cradle was spotless.

When Jessica had finished fitting the blankets and sheets into Kit’s new bed, Amelia Beard rose with the child in her arms. "Well, that looks nice and cozy, young man. You should be very comfortable for the time. Shall I settle you in? There .Ah, no, you do not enjoy being left in there by yourself, do you?" She smiled down at Kit, who had begun to whimper.

Jessica tucked the quilt securely around her son and took one of his chubby little fists. "Shhh, sweetheart. You can’t expect someone to hold you all the time." Gently she rocked the cradle. "Yes, that’s a good boy. How tired you must be after all the confusion. Close your eyes." After only a few minutes, Kit drifted off in the contented sleep so peculiar to infants.

"He should be all right now," Jessica whispered.

"Yes," Amelia agreed in the same hushed voice. "He’s peaceful now." She rose, and spoke softly to Cook. "I’ll take Jessica on a tour of the house now. Keep an eye on the child."

Cook nodded.

Before leaving the room, Jessica gave one last, tender look at her son.

"Never you worry," Molly smiled. "The babe will be in good hands."

"Thank you."

Quickly Jessica followed after Amelia Beard’s retreating figure, through the kitchen doorway into a narrow hall that was noticeably cooler than the kitchen.

"Back there," Amelia motioned leftward, "are the servants’ stairs and the cellar entrance. But since I want to show you the main rooms, we will use the front staircase." She turned to the right and followed the narrow corridor into a spacious front hall, to the rear of which rose a graceful, white-bannistered staircase, then went straight to the double doors to the right of the hall and swung them open.

"The dining room is in here. As you can see, it is convenient to the kitchen. No need to begin your duties until the morning, but then be sure first thing to take out the cold ashes and light a new fire, dust, and sweep. Rachel will take care of the table. We will need a morning fire, too, in the front parlor across the hall."

As Mrs. Beard spoke, Jessica observed the large, square room. The gleaming dining table and chairs were of elegant construction, perhaps Chippendale, as were the side pieces arranged along the walls. Yellow satin draperies adorned the four tall, paned windows. A pewter chandelier hung from the ceiling over the table, and a fire was blazing in the fireplace opposite the door. Pine branches were spread upon the mantel in keeping with the holiday season. The table was set for three, and serving dishes sat ready for use on the sideboard.

"I see my husband and daughter are not down yet, but then I am an early riser and generally up well before them. You will have a chance to meet them shortly." Amelia turned and, with Jessica at her heels, stepped out into the hall. She closed the doors behind them and motioned across the hall toward a matching set of doors. "Over here is the front parlor, which we use daily."

It was a room of warm colors, slightly larger than the dining room. A tall, white fireplace faced the door. The wood floor was partially covered by an oriental carpet of beige, gold, and a touch of red. Arranged before the fireplace were a sofa and two wingback chairs, upholstered in colors to complement the carpet. Deep-rose draperies hung at the windows. Along the walls were various straight chairs and tables, and a Sheraton secretary, its satiny finish glowing.

Jessica was impressed with the beauty and good taste the large roon displayed in all its aspects. "It’s lovely."

"Thank you," Amelia smiled. "Many of these pieces are family heirlooms. Others Mr. Beard and I acquired over the years. I take pleasure, and probably a bit too much pride, dear, in decorating and maintaining the house at its finest." She pointed toward another set of doors at the back of the room. "We will go out this way into the back hallway."

They proceeded across the corridor, to the first of two doorways.

"This is the summer parlor," Amelia explained. "A set of French doors open into the garden and make it quite pleasant in the warmer months."

The room was about half the size of the front parlor and decorated in lighter colors—pale greens, sunny yellows.

"We rarely use this room in winter," she added, "so for now you will need to do little more than an occasional dusting and straightening."

The tour continued, bringing them to the next doorway along the wall. Mr. Beard’s study, Amelia advised. It was furnished in deep reds and browns. A large desk sat opposite the fireplace, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase covered the wall behind, and two leather armchairs rested on a thick Turkish carpet before the fireplace.

"Mr. Beard spends a great deal of time here on his business matters, and he’s very particular about his desk. Do take a care not to disturb any of the papers when you are cleaning. It may seem disorderly, but I assure you, he knows precisely where everything is. One more room to show you downstairs, and then we will go up to the second floor."

They followed the hall away from the center of the house, toward a set of doors slightly more ornate than the others and possibly, Jessica thought, of more recent design.

"This is the ballroom," Amelia swung the doors wide. "It will be chilly in here. Obviously, we do not light the fire unless the room is in use. The ballroom is our little extravagance in the house, added by Mr. Beard’s father after the Revolution, since he entertained so extensively for his business."

How marvelous! Jessica thought as her eyes scanned the interior. The whole end of the house was given over to this long, high-ceilinged room. Tall windows to the right and left let in light that bathed the room in brightness, glinted off the two crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, and made golden trails on the parquet floors. The furnishings were few: side chairs along the walls, and a long table pushed to one side. Still, the splendor of the room took Jessica’s breath away. "Do you and Mr. Beard entertain often?" Her voice echoed in the huge expanse.

"We have a large party once or twice a year. Now with the war, of course, not as often. The last big affair was our daughter Mary’s wedding last spring. Quite a celebration."

"I can imagine."

Amelia smiled softly at the memory. "There were over a hundred guests. The ceremony was performed in the garden with a ball afterward. And such a beautiful bride she was! That is a mother’s pride speaking, but it did go off well. She and her husband, Roger, also live in Eastport, in a small house he inherited from his grandfather. It is convenient for them, now that he is employed in Mr. Beard’s mercantile business."

"And you have another daughter at home?"

"Elizabeth. You will meet her shortly. She is our younger child, just eighteen, and a lively one. Mary is more serious. You may meet her as well today, since she and Roger will be joining us for our Christmas dinner. Well, I had best show you the upstairs and the room you and Kit will be using. Then you will have time to rest and settle in before the servants’ party. All the help have Christmas afternoon and evening off for their own celebrations in the kitchen. Molly prepares a feast, and other friends come in. You will enjoy it, I am sure."

As she spoke, Amelia led Jessica back to the front hall. As they approached the staircase, Jessica heard voices and looked up to see a distinguished-looking, heavyset gentleman of about fifty descending the stairs, at his side a lovely blonde young woman.

"Bertram and Elizabeth! Merry Christmas!" Amelia Beard called gaily.

Elizabeth was the first to reach Mrs. Beard’s side, dropping a kiss on her mother’s cheek. "The same to you, Mama."

Mr. Beard came forward to give his wife a jovial squeeze. "Merry Christmas, my dear. A lovely day." His lively blue eyes looked over to Jessica, who stood as unobtrusively as possible a few paces behind Mrs. Beard. "And who have we here?"

"Oh, Bertram, you will not believe. . . but this is our new maid arrived just this morning, and quite a troublesome journey she had, losing her luggage in a coach mishap."

"Well, young woman, we had about given up hope of your arriving at all, but welcome."

"Let me introduce you properly," Amelia motioned Jessica forward. "Bertram, this is Jessica Dunlap. Jessica, my husband, Mr. Beard."

Jessica extended her hand. "I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Beard." An instant later she remembered that in this era it would be more customary for a servant to bow or curtsy to an employer.

Graciously ignoring her faux pas, Bertram Beard accepted her hand and returned the light pressure. "The pleasure is mine, Jessica. Most unfortunate about your journey, but I hope you will be happy with us."

"I am sure I will."

"And, Jessica," Amelia continued, "this is my daughter, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, Jessica Dunlap."

Although Elizabeth was smiling, there was a coolness to her manner, an air of superiority lacking in the elder Beards. Jessica became very aware of the dowdiness of her own appearance—the worn and mended drab gray dress opposed to the pale-blue satin and lace concoction adorning Elizabeth’s trim figure. Still, she instinctively forced her chin up proudly as she smiled, then nodded. "How do you do, Elizabeth."

"So you are the new maid." Elizabeth’s gray eyes swept over Jessica, missing nothing—neither the worn gown nor the lovely face. "Somehow I was expecting someone quite different. You are not from Eastport."

"No, from New York."

"Well, I shall have plenty for you to do. Being without a maid for the last month has left my wardrobe in a shambles." And, at the puzzled look in Jessica’s eyes: "Mama did tell you that one of your duties would be to assist me since as yet I have no personal maid?"

"No. . . "

"My apologies, Jessica," Amelia said quickly. "I should have mentioned it, but with all the confusion this morning, it slipped my mind. Elizabeth can advise you when she needs your assistance. Your regular household duties will take priority, of course."

Elizabeth smiled, satisfied. Jessica only nodded in acknowledgment.

"Both of you go have your breakfast now," Amelia said to her husband and daughter. "I will join you when I finish showing Jessica the rest of the house and her room."

Elizabeth looked up. "She is not staying in the cottage?"

"Temporarily I thought I would give her one of the attic rooms. Come along, Jessica."

Amelia headed purposefully up the stairs. Jessica followed quickly, wondering why Amelia Beard hadn’t told her husband and daughter the whole story. About Kit, about her being a married woman.

As though reading her mind, Amelia answered that question as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. "I will tell them about the child and your situation when we can talk privately. It’s not a subject to bring up in the front hall, with all the explanations required."

"Do you think your husband will object?"

"Bertram? Heavens, no. He has a generous heart for others’ misfortunes, and he gives me free rein in household matters. He has enough to keep him busy with his mercantile business, the mill and the farm."

They arrived at a landing at the top of the stairs, from which halls led off in two directions. "Only two bedrooms are in use now, obviously, and there are four other guest rooms. The master bedroom is over here." Mrs. Beard turned to the left and led Jessica into a large, sunny room that faced out to the road in front. From this height Jessica had an excellent view of the river across the roadway, and of the pasture and woodland beyond. An old canopy bed was centered at the back wall, with a Queen Anne style dresser between the front windows and a small lady’s desk snuggled into a corner near the fireplace.

"The dressing room is in here. I require no help with my dressing, but if you would keep the room tidy and see that a fire is lit every evening before we retire. The fire in Elizabeth’s room as well. Jeb will bring up the wood, and Rachel sees to the morning hot water. Oh—and while we are here, I have some infants’ gowns I saved from my daughters." Amelia bent before the carved blanket chest at the foot of the bed and opened the lid. She lifted out a few articles before nodding in satisfaction. "Yes, here they are, and in remarkably good condition. Let me see. . . " She held up several small white gowns. "This should do, and this, for the time." Handing the garments to Jessica, she replaced the other articles, closed the lid of the chest and rose. "That should keep the child warm, and Rachel will show you where to find linens for the babe."

Jessica fingered the fine, hand-sewn gowns, the delicate embroidery around the bib. "Thank you so much. I will take very good care of them."

"Not to worry. They are well made, as I can vouch for myself, and in the next week I will have Mr. Beard bring up some yard goods from the store so you can sew up some new things for the babe, and a new maid’s gown for yourself."

As moved as she was by her employer’s generosity, Jessica cringed at the thought of creating little gowns like these, or a dress for herself. She could sew passably, but she always used a modern sewing machine and dress patterns. Only with a great deal of practice could she hope to come close to duplicating the fine hand stitching that Mrs. Beard seemed to take for granted..

She had no time to worry about it then, since Amelia Beard was already leading her back to the hall, past the stairwell and toward the first door on the right.

"Elizabeth’s room. Here I think you will have a bit more of a chore. Dear though she is, the child is not particularly tidy." Her words were evidenced very clearly as they stepped into the room by the crumpled heap of bedcovers on the mattress, the quilt dragging on the floor, the nightgown draped over the back of a chair, the dress discarded on another; and, on the dressing table, by the spilled powder and hairpins, the silver-backed brush and comb dropped in the midst.

Despite the disorder, Jessica could see that it was a lovely room of delicate feminine furnishings in pale blue and rose. It was more cluttered than the Beards’ room, but charming, with the same front, river view.

"Oh, my," Amelia clucked. "Well, not time for you to straighten this today. Tomorrow morning will be time enough. I am a neat person myself and have always wondered where I got such a child. Her father often teases her that she should have been born with a personal servant in attendance." Shaking her head again, she directed Jessica back to the hall. "There are two other guest rooms along to the right here, though there is not time to take you through today. We will just stop a moment in Mary’s old room before I take you up to yours. There are some old gowns of hers in the wardrobe that I was going to give to the church charity. Perhaps one or two will fit you. You will want something prettier than that," she added, nodding toward Jessica’s gray dress, "for the festivities this afternoon."

Opening the door to the bedroom behind the master suite, she stepped briskly across the carpet to the large mahogany wardrobe and began flipping through the dresses hanging within. "Mary is about your height and weight."

Jessica watched as Mrs. Beard slid the gowns along the rod, and sighed at a beautiful royal-blue silk gown with creamy lace panels adorning the bodice and soft folds of the skirt, at another elegant full-sleeved red velvet dress. But Amelia Beard passed these right by as obviously unsuitable as a maid’s attire. She finally settled on a simple high-waisted, green wool dress with long, tight sleeves and a high neck adorned only by a small white collar, and a brown tweed walking dress that was unrelieved by any such accent and not much more complimentary than the gown Jessica was wearing. But both were serviceable, warm, and very well made.

"These should do." Amelia handed Jessica the gowns, then went to the dresser and returned with a pile of folded white cotton and cambric. "And a nightgown and change of underthings, mended I am afraid, but still a lot of wear in them."

Carrying the undergarments, Amelia went back to the hall. "I will show you your room now. Left here, and up the back stairs. We have one spare room in the attic that we keep for guests when the house is full. There is a small cot there, too, that we can use for the child."

The stairs were narrow and steep, bending up under the eaves and opening into yet another narrow hall.

Amelia gestured toward a door on the left. "Rachel’s room is there. Cook’s, down on the right. To the other side the servants’ workroom and storage areas. Your room is here." She opened the first door on the right. "As you can see, it is cozy, and there is a small fireplace." She strode over to the bed and dropped the undergarments on it. Jessica noticed some hooks on the wall by the door and hung the two dresses there, then surveyed the room. The furnishings were simple, but adequate: a maple four-poster bed and a nightstand, a rough dresser, a washstand with pitcher and bowl, an old rocking chair near the fireplace, braided rugs on the wide-board floors, and a narrow cot pushed into the far corner of the room.

"I thought," Amelia continued, "if we slid this cot up beside the bed with some rolled blankets along the edge to keep him from falling, it would work very well for the babe."

"Yes," Jessica agreed, "and it’s close to the fireplace, so he’ll be warm."

"Unfortunately we only have one cradle, and it would seem better to leave that in the kitchen so he will be in a safe spot while you are working. Cook will be there to keep an eye on him."

"She really won’t mind?"

"Molly adores children. Never had any of her own and makes up for the lack with the neighborhood youngsters—always one or another of them coming to the kitchen door begging a cookie and a cup of milk. Not that I mind—keeps the place lively. Well, you should be all right for the time. I will go down and join my husband and daughter. If you are in need of anything, ask Cook or Rachel. Tomorrow being Saturday, the household will sleep in, so there is no need for you to be up too early at your chores, though do see that the front parlor and dining room are tidied and the fires lit in both rooms. Mary and her husband will stay the night, so we will be five for breakfast. On weekdays we are up by eight, except for Elizabeth who often rises later. I will no doubt see you later, but Merry Christmas, and welcome."

"The same to you, Mrs. Beard—and thank you so much."

The older woman smiled. "If you follow the back stairs all the way down, they will bring you out to the kitchen hall."

"I’ll put these things away, then go down."

"Good day then, and do not worry over my husband’s reaction to the child. . . I sense it may still be on your mind. He will raise no objections."

With that she hurried away, closing the door behind her. Jessica let out a sigh of despair, her mind spinning with all that had happened in the last few hours. Slowly she walked to the windows and stared out at the snowy scene as she tried to compose her thoughts.

Despite Amelia Beard’s warmth, she found this all terribly frightening and felt nervously unprepared for what lay ahead. She had only the smallest clue to the running of the household. Nothing in her own twentieth century had prepared her for the lack of labor-saving devices, the need to light fires, to carry water from a hand pump, to empty chamber pots. There would be no vacuums or commercially available cleaning aids for her now, just brooms and dustpans, soap and water. Not that she doubted her physical ability to handle a maid’s chores—she was healthy and strong—but she did wonder if she could carry it off efficiently and not make herself look like a fool. The Beards and their servants would expect her to have experience in all this, to say nothing of a familiarity with the habits and customs of the time.

Shaking her head slowly, she longed for Christopher’s guidance. This was his era. He could have told her what to expect, what to do. Not that he’d ever had to work in a servant’s capacity, but as a man who’d once had many servants, he could give her enough clues to carry on. She tried to remember now all that he’d told her of his life in England—the day-to-day details, what he’d expected of his servants, the little inconveniences that she’d never had to consider in her twentieth century world. Of course, when they’d talked, neither of them had dreamed that Jessica would one day face such rigors. There’d only been the fear that Christopher would return to his own time.

It was with an effort that she kept the tears from flooding her eyes, from breaking down and giving in to the miserable ache inside. She felt so terribly alone. . . so terribly lost and frightened! Where was he? Would they ever find each other again?

She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath. There were things to be thankful for, too, and she forced herself to think of them. She had a place to stay, a source of income. Amelia Beard had accepted her fabricated story, and she was sure that she didn’t suspect Jessica to be anything but a contemporary of hers. Jessica’s modern speech blended in well enough with the working-class New England accent that no one would ever question it.

Before leaving the room, she paused in front of the small mirror over the washstand and examined her reflection. It was the same face that had stared back at her from her twentieth century bathroom mirror the night before: The high-cheekboned face, the straight nose, the full mouth. Dark lashes framing green-flecked hazel eyes. There was nothing in that reflection to tell what had transpired in the last few hours, yet she knew that in one instant her whole life had changed drastically, and perhaps tragically.