Forever Ashley Page 5

  Aaron was most likely one of the colonists who formed a provincial congress at Concord to govern Massachusetts. That congress, she knew, would force Gage’s raid on colonial military supplies in Lexington and Concord within a few days.

  She closed her eyes. This was absolutely the most absurd dream she’d ever had. Why couldn’t she be dreaming that Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig were fighting over her, and, out of desperation, Mel Gibson kidnapped her, then rushed her off to the Hawaiian Islands for a life of paradise?

  Instead she found herself riding on the back of a horse behind an American patriot in the eighteenth century, only days before Paul Revere’s famous ride to warn the colonists that the British were about to attack.

  They emerged from the harbor area and entered the main part of town. The air was putrid there. Gutters ran the lengths of the street, forming open sewers. Slops and human filth had been tossed out the windows into the gutter, and droves of wild hogs wallowed in the muck and fed on garbage left to rot in the passageways between houses.

  Ashley gasped as a man almost ran into the horse, another man close behind him.

  “Thief! Thief!” the second man shouted.

  The horse darted around the man, forcing Ashley to grab hold of Aaron’s coattail to avoid being dumped into the slimy muck.

  “Cutpurse,” Aaron murmured more to himself than to her. He deftly maneuvered the horse through the milling crowd. “Since the embargo has lengthened, more and more people grow desperate.”

  The horse galloped on as Ashley turned and watched the thief being overtaken and thrown to the ground.

  The horse continued through the town, up winding alleys and down dark passageways. A church bell rang, signaling twilight. Ashley gazed up at the unadorned meetinghouse. The frame building was painted a dull white, but the belfry on the roof was lovely with its moldings and tall spires. The classic columns in front were severely plain, yet they added a note of dignity to the structure.

  The horse rounded a corner, and Ashley slipped sideways in the saddle. Aaron reached back to steady her, and she held on to him tighter, trying to hitch herself up more solidly on the rump of the horse.

  “How much farther?” she shouted. Her bottom was numb already.

  “Until we get there,” he called over his shoulder.

  Turning down another alley, Aaron slowed the horse. Ashley’s gaze quickly took in the painted signs of various size and ornateness, marking the mercantile, a bank, a boardinghouse, and she shivered—the barred narrow openings in a wall housing the jail. As they rounded a second corner, her eyes caught the sign on the silversmith shop and she squealed. “The Silversmith Shop: P. Revere, Prop.”

  Paul Revere’s silver shop! Ashley remembered Revere’s business was barely surviving in 1775 because of the worsening situation with England. But then, Paul was a busy man. He was not only the leader of the Sons of Liberty, a group that had found varied ways to oppose the English, but he was Massachusetts’ number one express rider between Boston and Philadelphia.

  Tugging at Aaron’s coat sleeve, she pointed to the shop. “Look! It’s Paul Revere’s silversmith shop! I wonder if Rachel’s there!” Ashley hoped the dream would allow her to meet a woman of the 1700s. There were so many things she wanted to ask!

  Aaron stiffened, glancing over his shoulder at her. “You know Rachel?”

  “Well, not personally, of course. But I’ve read—”

  She saw the muscle in his left jaw working tightly. “You’ve read what?”

  It was more of a statement than a question, reminding Ashley that women didn’t read anything of substance in 1775. It was not thought proper. But women’s roles had changed drastically since Aaron Kenneman’s day, and Ashley wasn’t going to lie to him.

  “I’ve read that Paul took over his father’s silversmith business when he was only fifteen.”

  “And?”

  “And awhile later he married his first wife, Sara Orne. Paul and Sara had six children—plus two who died at birth.”

  Aaron swore impatiently.

  But Ashley went on with her recitations as if she were in no danger of being throttled. ‘The surviving children’s names were Deborah, Paul Jr., Sara, Mary…and Francine…no, it was Frankie…no, maybe it was Faith, no—”

  “Frances!” Aaron snapped.

  “Yes! That’s it, Frances, and Elizabeth.”

  “Your memory serves you well,” Aaron said shortly. The woman was a witch. First she babbled about things that made no sense; now she was babbling about things that were true. Yet she claimed she was not a spy. “You know much about a man you profess to have never met,” he accused.

  Aaron scowled as he thought about her wealth of knowledge. Was it possible Paul knew this woman? Could he be romantically linked with her? Of course not. Aaron dismissed the thought as worthless. He’d never known Paul to be a womanizer. Paul didn’t have the time.

  “I only know what I’ve read,” Ashley repeated stoically, knowing it was a waste of time to argue with a dream.

  “Perhaps you only have visions,” Aaron suggested, and none too kindly.

  “Visions?” She laughed softly. “No, I don’t have visions. I must have eaten pepperoni before I went to bed.” Yes, that would explain it. She had eaten pepperoni again. Pepperoni invariably caused her to have nightmares.

  Aaron turned slightly in the saddle to glance at her. “You’re talking gibberish again.”

  Ashley sighed. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand, even if I could explain.” His eyes returned to the road, but she noticed him deep in thought, as if her were trying to choose more careful words instead of getting frustrated.

  “Those who have a strange turn of mind often see things others cannot.” He didn’t deny Ashley Wheeler was lovely, though she did babble incessant nonsense.

  “You think I’m crazy.”

  “Mayhap not mentally deranged, but there are those individuals who brew spells and potions and often profess to see things others don’t.”

  “Oh, you think I’m a witch.”

  “You deny that you are?”

  “Would it do any good if I did?”

  “Tell me more of what you have ‘read,’ ” he mocked.

  They were riding down an open road now. The horse’s gait slowed as they wound along what was little more than a dirt path. The woman’s knowledge both fascinated and annoyed Aaron, but he found himself powerless to cease his questioning.

  “You and the colonists think King George is quite a nice fellow, but he isn’t.” She grinned as she felt him grow tense again. “Everyone’s blaming Parliament for the mess the country’s in when it’s really King George and the head of the English treasury demanding more and more of your money.”

  “You have ‘read’ this,” he scoffed.

  “I read it,” she verified happily. Oh, he was a handsome rascal, but his lack of respect for her knowledge annoyed her. “Dr. Kenneman, in spite of the general opinion that women are made only for the delight and pleasure of a man, we do have brains. A woman of the nineties no longer has merely to parrot a man’s views,” she took pleasure in informing him.

  “The nineties? Fifteen years from now?”

  “No, two-hundred and fifteen years from now.”

  He turned to look at her again.

  She grinned. “You don’t believe me?”

  “There is nothing worse than a sharp-tongued woman with a higher opinion of herself than can be substantiated.”

  She pinched his ribs. “Listen, buddy. If this wasn’t a dream, you would be talking an octave higher right about now for that kind of chauvinist remark.” This doesn’t offend me, but it might others, think about it

  Wincing, he shook his head in wonder. “What manner of wench are you?”

  She was tempted to tell him, but even in a dream, it would be a little impertinent on her part. But one more macho remark like that one, and he was asking for it.

  “You feel that women are inferior to men?” she challeng
ed.

  “Women have their place,” he conceded. He didn’t personally harbor the common belief that women had no right to education or personal opinion, but he had no objection to men who did. Besides, he didn’t know why he was trying to carry on an intelligent conversation with this woman. His only duty was to see that she did not escape until plans could be made to get rid of her.

  “And where might that place be, good doctor?” Ashley goaded.

  “Women should take care of the home, raise the children, read their Bible, perhaps a cookbook if they’re not naturally talented.”

  She laughed.

  “You find my observations amusing?”

  “I find you amusing.”

  They rode in silence for a spell. Ashley realized that she was exhausted. A dull headache throbbed at the base of her temple, and she longed for the bumpy ride to be over.

  The sun had gone behind a low bank of clouds, and the air had an uncomfortable chill to it now.

  “You spoke of Paul.” Aaron’s voice suddenly broke into her scattered thoughts. “What more do you know of him?”

  “Well, he’s been working since he was a child. Learning the silversmith business from his father, ringing church bells, whatever, to earn money. He took over the business when he was either fifteen or nineteen, depending on whose opinion you read, and made beads, rings, lockets, buttons, pitchers, teapots, which was a fine business considering the tea party episode. Once he even made a silver collar for a man’s pet squirrel.

  “History says that when his first wife died, Paul became involved with the Sons of Liberty. He eventually hired Rachel Walker to keep house and care for the children. Apparently the children liked her so much that Paul asked Rachel to marry him. Eventually Paul had sixteen children. No wonder he had a hard time making ends meet. Anyway, when English ships sailed into Boston Harbor to try to sell their tea, the Sons of Liberty demanded the ships leave by December 16 or they’d throw the tea in the harbor. When they ignored the ultimatum, the elder Revere and his son Paul joined 150 others who dressed as Indians to dump the tea—all 114 chests of East India that was aboard the Dartmouth and two other ships that were tied up at Griffin’s Wharf that day—the Eleanor and the Beaver. It was raining—and cold. But by nine o’clock, more than ninety thousand pounds of tea were floating in the harbor. All they needed was a big slice of lemon.”

  Aaron turned to look at her again.

  Ashley smiled, pleased that she could distress him so easily. “Isn’t that the way it went?”

  “Confound you! Who told you that Paul and his son were involved?”

  “I read it—”

  “In a book,” he finished wearily. “What kind of book might this be?”

  “History. All kinds of history. Columbus. Napoleon. All of it. From the beginning to the twenty-first century.”

  “You are to be complimented. You are well versed in events.”

  “Well, I thought I hated history, but I’ve had to memorize so many facts for my job.”

  He frowned. “A job as what?”

  “My job as a tour guide at the museum. And I know about the Boston massacre too.”

  Aaron’s features paled, and he faced front. “Curse my luck! I should have made John Hancock take her home with him,” he muttered under his breath.

  Ashley crawled wearily off the back of the horse thirty minutes later. Her words were met with a cold pewter gaze. “I changed my mind.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  Taking the wench home with him would be ill advised, he had realized. The Black Goat was a noisy place with a bad reputation. If she got it in her mind to try an escape and he was bid to tie and gag her, her screams would cause no question from the clientele who frequented the establishment.

  Ashley sighed as she stared at the dilapidated inn. If this wasn’t her luck: a grade-B dream on a low budget.

  Her opinion of the Black Goat worsened when they stepped inside. The air reeked with the odor of unwashed bodies. “Now, honestly, we’re not going to stay here, are we?” Ashley complained. “In my day the board of health would close this place in an instant.”

  “The beds are adequate and the food filling.” Aaron nudged her toward a vacant table toward the back.

  “Good grief” Ashley grumbled.

  When they were seated, Aaron signaled for the serving girl. “Not a word,” he warned as the barmaid started toward them.

  “Have I been talking too much?” Ashley goaded innocently.

  “Yes.”

  “What’ll it be, matey?” The voluptuous girl approached the table, her limpid blue eyes sliding over Aaron appreciatively.

  Ashley noticed the girl’s hand lingered on Aaron’s shoulder longer than necessary as she reached to scoop up two dirty mugs from the table with the other hand.

  “Two ciders and two meat pies.” The way he returned the barmaid’s smile was entirely too cordial. Ashley suspected that Aaron Kenneman was not exactly a stranger to the Black Goat.

  The girl turned her back to Ashley, but she still caught the invitation in her voice. “Anything else to suit your fancy, handsome?”

  “Not today.” Aaron and the young woman exchanged what Ashley considered meaningful looks.

  He jumped as Ashley gave him a firm kick beneath the table.

  Stunned, he looked at her.

  “You’re here on business,” she snapped. The randy buck.

  “Don’t do that again,” he warned tightly. His patience was wearing thin with this wench! Demented or not, the woman was not going to kick him in the shins and expect to get away with it.

  They glared at one another, each drawing an invisible line the other wasn’t to cross.

  “Haven’t seen you here for a while, Doctor.”

  Aaron glanced up to find the little rotund owner of the inn standing beside the table. The man’s bulging stomach was covered by a stained apron with an adequate display of the week’s menu splattered across the front.

  “It has been awhile, Medrian. My work keeps me busy.”

  “Aye, so I hear.” Medrian Frolonzo smiled knowingly at Ashley. “It be a fine day we’re having, mistress?”

  “No,” Ashley said. “It’s a perfectly rotten one.”

  Medrian stared at her vacantly.

  Aaron nudged Ashley with the tip of his boot beneath the table. “You must excuse her, Medrian. The lady grows weary.” He nudged her again, urging her to confirm his observation.

  She looked at him. “What?”

  “The lady,” he enunciated, “grows weary,” he said again.

  “Oh…” Ashley yawned obediently.

  “Ah…yes.” Medrian smiled.

  “We’ll need a room for the night,” Aaron requested in a low tone.

  Ashley booted his shins hard again.

  Sucking in his breath, he gave her a black look.

  “We’ll need two rooms,” Ashley corrected nicely.

  “One room,” Aaron repeated, booting her back.

  She booted him again.

  He booted her back.

  The little proprietor eyed the table anxiously as it jiggled merrily.

  Whack!

  Crack!

  She gasped. “That hurt!” He was the most uncivilized apparition of fantasy that anyone could have the misfortune of being stuck with!

  Aaron smiled pleasantly at Medrian. “The young lady is only being modest. One room.”

  Medrian stepped back, giving the couple plenty of room. “’Tis no concern…your regular room is waiting.” The look in his eye assured Ashley that she had played right into Aaron’s hands. The innkeeper thought what Aaron intended for him to think; she was nuttier than a fruitcake.

  Flipping the innkeeper a coin, Aaron looked at Ashley. “You must eat, darling.” He smiled indulgently. “You’ll need your strength.”

  Her tone dripped disdain. “Regular room?”

  “I travel often.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  The serving girl re
turned, carrying a tray laden with food. After balancing the tray on her hip, she placed a large meat pie, a hunk of bread, and a mug of ale in front of Ashley.

  Ashley sat up straighter, her eyes scanning the meat pie anxiously. What did people eat in the eighteenth century? She tried to remember. Birds? Rodents? Insects?

  “Something displeases her highness?” Aaron asked.

  Ashley glanced at him weakly. “What’s…in this?”

  He looked at the pie, then back at her. “If you are hungry enough, you will eat whatever it is.” He forked a succulent piece of meat from the pie and calmly chewed it, his eyes locked with hers stubbornly.

  It was the vague whatever that bothered her. She sighed, glancing toward the dirty back room wistfully. “I suppose there’s no hope of getting an order of nachos, is there?”

  Aaron took a second bite of his meat pie. “What are ‘nachos’?”

  “They’re these crisp little tortilla chips with hot peppers and cheese.”

  “Of course.” He continued eating.

  “They’re great with Pepsi or Coke.”

  “Of course.” He went on eating as if he weren’t dining with a halfwit.

  Ashley brought the fork hesitantly to her mouth, taking a tiny exploratory taste of the pie.

  Aaron watched from the corner of his eye as she lowered her fork and nibbled the fare.

  Deciding that it was edible, she cut another slice, sighing as she chewed it.

  As she ate, her gaze swept the room filled mostly with men who were either eating or playing cards. All of them were drinking beer from fat steins.

  A wide fireplace dominated one end of the room. An iron crane jutted out from the back and a large, black pot was suspended from it.

  The serving girls regularly moved to the pot to swing the back pole out and dip stew from the kettle into large bowls. A spit with half a skewered cow hung over the fire. Ashley focused on a small boy who sat to one side, chin in hand, turning the spit with a wooden handle.

  “What’s the boy doing?” she asked.

  Aaron glanced up, his gaze following the direction she was pointing. “The spit-turning boy?”

  She frowned. “Spit-turning boy? That’s his job? To sit there and turn the meat?”

  Aaron shrugged, his attention drawn back to the meal. “’Tis honorable work for the lad.”