Wishes & Tears Page 2

  Instead of being a refuge, the bed was becoming a prison. Her curiosity about the strange house and its unusual occupants was growing on her. She also wanted to call Clarice, go home, and plan for her future without Brad.

  After Bridget set down her morning tea and left, Faith scooted to the edge of her bed. She let her legs and feet dangle for a while to get the blood circulating again. Feeling confident, she stood on her wobbly legs, grasping the iron headboard for support. Her legs were numb and weak and her mind a bit foggy. With determination she moved one foot in front of the other, reaching the iron footboard. She stood clinging to the iron post, contemplating her next move.

  The sun was radiating through the stained glass creating a colorful, fiery effect. Tapestry draperies were pulled over the other two windows keeping the room dim. Faith decided that she needed some sunlight and fresh air.

  Releasing her hold on the footboard, she gingerly stepped toward a window. After drawing open the heavy drapes, she sank into a nearby chair. Winded, she drew a deep breath and opened her eyes to the world outside her window. She gasped at the scene below. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

  The scene outside was like some Hollywood movie set. She reached out and pushed up the window to open it, wanting to get a better view. She breathed in the rush of fresh, cherry-blossom-scented air. In disbelief of the scene outside, she leaned over and stuck out her head. Horses’ hooves clattered as they pulled carriages and wagons.

  A cable car clanged as it made its ascent while an Oldsmobile motorcar tooted its horn as it sputtered by. Women in shirtwaist blouses and ankle-length skirts lifted their hems crossing the street while men attired in three-button suits with high-collared shirts, and bowler hats scurried about with canes and valises. Iron fences protecting flower gardens, blossoming trees, and grassy yards fronted pristine Victorian homes and row houses. Faith recognized some of the buildings but it was as if they had been stripped of their grime and age. From the blooming rhododendrons and daffodils she knew that it was still spring, but of the year she wasn’t certain.

  The door to her bedroom opened and Bridget walked in. She stepped back in startled surprise when she noticed Faith seated at the open window. Placing her hands on her broad hips, she seemed ready to scold as she approached.

  “Too fine a day to be indoors, isn’t it, with the sun shining and all those flowers blooming?” Bridget asked. “Made you chance fate and get out of bed, didn’t it?”

  “I just wanted some light and fresh air but I think I got more than I bargained for.”

  “The walk wore you out, didn’t it? Just because you’re feeling better doesn’t mean you’re cured.”

  Faith turned to face the maid and asked in a serious tone, “What’s the date today?”

  “April 8.”

  “What year?”

  Bridget tilted her head. “The year? 1906.”

  “1906?” Faith swallowed hard.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Could you get me a newspaper?”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Bridget curtsied, pivoted and rushed out of the room.

  She returned a few minutes later holding the Chronicle. She handed the newspaper to Faith who snatched it from her.

  “Quite a pity what happened in Italy with the volcano erupting and all. So many poor souls killed,” Bridget commented with a sigh.

  Faith gaped at the headline that announced, in bold letters, the tragic eruption of Mount Vesuvius. The news jolted her into the realization that this episode wasn’t a sick joke. Somehow, she had transcended the bounds of time and had ended up back in another era. How?

  She tried to act composed when the unsettling fear of being trapped back in time overcame her. She felt like an alien who had just landed on another planet, an outcast. This wasn’t her world.

  She was a woman who had thrived on material possessions and on the luxuries of modern convenience. How could she cope in a turn-of-the-century lifestyle? What about her family and her friends? None of them were even born yet! What about her job? She was a teacher but her tools were the calculator and computer. If it was indeed 1906 she would be alone, a stranger. 1906.

  Suddenly, she remembered the earthquake. San Francisco was devastated by a major earthquake and fire in 1906. Wasn’t it on April 18? What was the date? April 8.

  Overwhelmed over things that were out of her control, Faith began to panic. Beads of sweat formed and began to roll down her forehead. Her limbs trembled. As her heart quickened its beat, she gasped for breath. She curled up in the chair, bringing her legs up against her chest, seeking protection, and grasped them with her arms in a reassuring hug.

  Bridget ran toward her. Faith wouldn’t move but softly moaned.

  Bridget rushed out of the room seeking help.

  Doctor Forrester dashed into the room and to Faith’s side. Putting one arm around her, he used the other to lift her up and out of the chair. He held her tight in his arms as he carried her to the bed. Tears rolled from her eyes as she mumbled incoherently. As if tucking in a child, Dr. Forrester laid her on the bed and covered her with the sheets and quilt.

  “Bridget, fetch me a basin of cool water and a rag. Make haste!” he barked.

  Bridget scurried out of the room.

  Faith gazed up at the doctor as he leaned down to examine her. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his minty breath and spicy masculine scent. She looked up at him. His was an arresting face with a strong bone structure, a solid square jaw, and high cheekbones. Black lashes, unusually long and wispy for a man, framed dark almond eyes. His bushy black brows and wavy black hair added to his dramatic appearance.

  Withdrawing a stethoscope from his suit pocket, he put on the headset and eartips and placed the chestpiece on her chest. His gentle fingers slid the cool chestpiece over the flannel nightgown. His touch, so close to her flesh, made her flinch and tingle.

  “What is it that upset you so?” he asked, removing the stethoscope and putting it back in his pocket.

  “You … you wouldn’t understand,” she mumbled.

  “There’s a great deal that I don’t understand about you. Perhaps it’s about time you start explaining. A doctor cannot help a patient about whom he knows so little.”

  Faith quietly watched him as he stood and went to retrieve a nearby chair. He placed the wicker chair at her bedside and sank his tall, lanky body in it.

  Bridget returned with a small metal basin of water and a cotton rag. The doctor took them from her and placed the basin on the bed. He swished the rag in the water and rang it out.

  “Thank you, Bridget. You may attend to your other duties now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bridget curtsied and left.

  The doctor placed the damp cloth on Faith’s forehead. She quivered as the cold touched her warm skin.

  “Now, tell me. How did you end up on the bank near Golden Gate Park wet, strangely attired, and near death? Where did you come from?” he asked, eyes boring into her for answers.

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. You’d really write me off as being crazy.”

  “Perhaps.” He removed the cloth from her head and returned it to the basin.

  She sighed. “I wish I knew how I ended up here, in this place and time, and why. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “You say place and time? Bridget said that you became hysterical when she told you the date and handed you today’s newspaper. Why?” he asked, his eyes darkening with the intensity of his gaze.

  “As I said, you wouldn’t understand. Just like you didn’t understand Tylenol and couldn’t understand cellular phone.”

  He shrugged. “I still don’t. Perhaps, if you explain it will help.”

  He wrung out the cloth and placed it on her forehead again.

  “How can I explain that in the year 2006 I accidentally drove my car over a cliff into San Francisco Bay, only to be found on its banks in 1906?” she asked, beginning to tremble at the thought.

  He knit his brows and gla
red at her.

  She met his gaze. “I warned you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “It’s preposterous. You’re asking me to believe that you have gone back in time one hundred years?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how or why.”

  He scoffed in agitation. “I’ve heard that gypsies can be beguiling, but you, Madame, have mastered the art.”

  “You think I’m a gypsy?”

  “Only gypsies weave strange tales, wear indecent garments, wear numerous earbobs, claim no past, and predict the future.”

  She had the urge to laugh at his ranting and raving and his thinking that she was a gypsy because she was from the future. This wasn’t a laughing matter, though. She was as confused as he was about the turn of events. How can one explain that which defies explanation?

  “Is that what you really think?”

  “What else am I to think? That you dropped out of the sky from one hundred years hence? What nonsense!” He pulled the cloth off her forehead and threw it in the basin, causing a splash.

  “You’re a doctor, a scientific man. I should think if anyone could understand my plight it would be you.”

  He stood. “Don’t toy with me. As soon as you are well enough, you can reunite with your clan on the Barbary Coast. You can go cast your spells on some unsuspecting oaf!”

  He abruptly turned and marched out of the room.

  She lay in bed wondering what was to become of her.

  Chapter 2

  Faith gazed in the oval hand mirror that Bridget had lent her. The haunting reflection made her gasp. Gone was her perfectly chiseled face, replaced by sunken cheeks, angular bones, and hollow eyes. Her glowing ivory complexion had turned pasty and sallow. Her eyebrows needed tweezing and dark roots were growing out from the center part of her hair. “California blonde” was returning to mousy brunette. In disgust, she threw the mirror at her side on the bed, closed her eyes and settled back against the pillows. No wonder Doctor Forrester had been avoiding her.

  A gentle knock rapped on her door.

  “Come in,” Faith said, opening her eyes.

  Bridget ambled in with a silver tray laden with a tea set, scones, and teacakes. She set down the tray on the bedside table with a rattle and turned to Faith.

  “Tea time, ma’am. Some sweets to put some meat on your bones.”

  “Don’t drill it in, Bridget.” Faith sighed. “I know how dreadful I look.”

  “Nothing that some food and time can’t heal.”

  “And some Clairol.”

  “What ma’am?” Bridget tilted her head, stray strands of carrot red hair escaping from her starched, frilled cap.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t understand. I just took so much for granted: peroxide, hair coloring, makeup, manicures,” Faith said, inspecting her ragged nails and chipped red polish.

  Bridget shook her head, her gaze puzzled.

  “I just want to return to normal.”

  “Ma’am, if your appearance is bothering you, perhaps I can be of some assistance. Before coming to work for the good doctor, I had been a lady’s maid. I can help you with your toilette,” Bridget said, beaming with self-assurance.

  “I would be a challenge.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Bridget smiled, her apple cheeks glowing.

  “Looking good is akin to feeling good.”

  Faith met her gaze. “You have been so kind to me. I’ll put myself in your hands.”

  “After you’ve had your tea I’ll return with my bag and I’ll see what I can do.”

  • • •

  Later, Bridget returned and eased Faith into a wicker chair. She opened her satchel of grooming aids. Faith watched in fascination as Bridget withdrew items from the bag like a magician revealing props. These props, though, were grooming aids from another era. The five-prong waving iron, a braided wire hair roll, a tortoiseshell pompadour comb, and boar bristle brush were considered antiques by Faith.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve worked for a lady,” Bridget said, picking up the hairbrush, she stepped behind Faith and began to brush her thick and tangled mane in caressing strokes.

  The effect was soothing and was the first grooming Faith had had since entering this bewildering time and place.

  “You work magic with that brush.”

  “That’s quite a compliment, ma’am, coming from a gypsy and all.”

  “Do you really believe I’m a gypsy?”

  “I don’t know otherwise. I’ve always been quite fascinated with gypsies.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you but, contrary to what Doctor Forrester believes, I am not a gypsy. I’m a schoolteacher.”

  “Ma’am, it isn’t my place to question but … ” Bridget hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  “I was wondering. Where did you come from?”

  “If I told you the truth you’d think me insane. Let me say that I come from a strange place far away that no longer exists. I am a refugee without a home or family.” She choked on her words, feeling as lost and alone as an astronaut on Mars. The worst part was, she didn’t know how or why.

  Bridget stopped brushing and stood for a moment in contemplative silence.

  “Bridget, I’m sorry I can’t answer your question more thoroughly now. In time you’ll learn the truth,” she said, glancing back at the maid.

  Bridget took a step back.

  “Please, trust me rather than fear me. I really want to be your friend. God knows, I need a friend.” Faith met Bridget’s confused gaze.

  “Oh.” Bridget sighed as if a load had been taken off her back. “Why should I fear you? I, too, am a refugee. Left my homeland in Ireland. Left my family and all my friends to begin a new life here.”

  “So you can understand my plight?”

  She nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  While Bridget continued to brush her hair, Faith tried to contemplate her future. Wasn’t it ironic that she would be starting a new life in a different place and time? Rather, same place, different time. If she was back in her modern world, she would also be starting over. Either way, hers would be a new life without Brad. Just thinking about Brad made her seethe. This entire predicament was his fault.

  “Ouch,” Faith squealed as her hair was yanked.

  “Sorry, ma’am, just a nasty tangle.”

  Faith glanced back at Bridget and smiled. She really did need a friend. She needed someone to help her adjust to life in this old new world. Bridget, who seemed so trusting and caring, could teach her. After all, she had come over from Ireland and had learned to survive. One thing Faith knew was that she, herself, was a survivor.

  • • •

  “Now, isn’t that better?” Bridget asked with a contented grin. She handed Faith the hand mirror and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

  With hesitation, Faith accepted the mirror and peered into it. This time, the reflection shone more to her liking. The upswept pompadour hairstyle was quite elegant and refined. Faith had never worn her hair up before and was surprised at the Gibson Girl effect. Bridget had even done a commendable job of hiding the dark roots. She sighed. If she only had her foundation, blusher, mascara, and a dab of lipstick.

  “Is something wrong, ma’am?” Bridget asked.

  “You’re a genius at hair styling. If I just wasn’t so pale.”

  “But a lily-white complexion is a sign of beauty.”

  Faith shook her head, setting down the mirror. There was so much to get used to.

  “Bridget, my hair is lovely but I can’t go about in a nightgown. Could you bring me my clothes?”

  “You mean the things you were wearing when the good doctor found you?” She frowned.

  “Yes, my clothes.”

  “Ma’am, you can’t be seen out and about in those.”

  “And why not?”

  Bridget made a clucking sound with her tongue, turned on her heels, and walked over to the dresser. Out of a drawer she removed Faith’s clothes. She waved the tan leather miniskirt like a fl
ag in front of her.

  “Your clothes have shrunk. This is most indecent.” She tossed the miniskirt on the bed.

  She picked up the silk ribbed turtleneck. “This is unacceptable.”

  She threw the sweater on the bed and retrieved the nude pantyhose, a thong bikini, and a lacy Wonderbra. “And these. I don’t know what they are but they seem like something a proper lady wouldn’t be caught dead wearing!”

  Faith covered her mouth with her hand and laughed. Bridget stood before her, hand on her hips like a den mother with a stern gaze and an attitude to match. Faith continued to laugh. The whole scene seemed too preposterous to be true. After the laughter came tears. She looked at each article of clothing and grasped them to her chest, one by one. They were all she had, the only reminders of her previous life, a life that was her past, and, seemingly, not her future.

  “Ma’am?” Bridget glanced down and smoothed her apron. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

  Faith sniffled. “No. You were just being honest. You’re right. I can’t wear these things. It’s 1906, isn’t it?”

  Bridget nodded, looking up.

  “What does the well-dressed woman of 1906 wear?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “Not exactly. Can you help me?”

  “I can go up to my quarters and see what I can do. This past year I’ve gained a wee bit of weight and some of my clothes just don’t fit. Perhaps they can be altered for you.”

  “Oh, Bridget, you are a saint. Please go check.”

  • • •

  The cotton shirtwaist was a little big but Faith’s padded bra did fill it out and the white blouse did tuck neatly into the gray Melton cloth skirt. Even without a corset, the skirt fit well, a credit to Bridget’s skill with a needle and thread. Over Bridget’s objections, Faith donned her pantyhose and slipped her feet into a worn pair of Bridget’s black oxfords. Though a little snug, they did complement the somber outfit. She just wished that she hadn’t lost her kidskin pumps in the Bay during the accident.